


Tastes the Sweetest

by honeysweetcutie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Kink, F/M, Smut, Toxic Relationships, Vampires, tag is actually dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29699094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeysweetcutie/pseuds/honeysweetcutie
Summary: "You're so breakable, Granger, you know that? I could crush you right now." Hermione has only felt fear three times. The first time, when she was lying beneath Bellatrix's wand. The second, when Harry walked out to the forest with no intention of coming back. And now, today, with Malfoy's hand on her hip and her blood on his fingers. [DEAD DOVE] COMPLETE[Putting all of my works back up to protect against plagiarism.]
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressLynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressLynn/gifts).



**I decided to dead dove it.**

**Trigger warnings: dub-con, bloodplay, toxicity, bad BDSM etiquette, overstimulation, smut smut smut. Draco is a borderline abuser and is dark. Hermione also discovers she has a degradation kink. This story is nutso.**

**It's porn and it's full of adverbs and I don't care~**

**I USED THE C WORD AND COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF THE WORD FUCK AND BARELY ANY AFTERCARE BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE TOUCHING ME AFTER. I AM SORRY.**

**As always, this story has a playlist. Theme is post hardcore/metalcore this time. My YouTube is Mariah L Stevens!**

* * *

**Tastes the Sweetest**

_Part One_

Hermione hated holidays.

It wasn't the actual holidays themselves that she hated. It was the incessant need for everyone to throw some sort of function to celebrate them. Parties, fundraisers, dinners, galas . . . Rooms filled with too many people asking too many questions, pretending to get along for the sake of the family.

Hogwarts ran rampant with parties at the holidays, especially in the common rooms. She remembered hearing about them and never being invited to any. Sure, there'd been parties that she'd attended with Harry and Ron, but how many of them had she been individually presented with an official invite to?

Zero.

Maybe it was parties in general that she hated. Summers spent back in London with her family had consisted of the neighborhood trying to push all the kids their age into being friends. It never worked, what with Hermione being more interested in reading than playing in the Merrywethers' pool.

The Summer of her Fifth Year, one of the girls next door at home had invited her to a party to celebrate the end of the Summer, telling her it was going to be held at another location. She'd been so excited to be invited to her first party that she'd decided to dress up and do her make-up. Her mother had driven her there, only to find out the entire thing was a farce.

If there was a party, Hermione certainly hadn't been invited to it.

She supposed she hadn't hated holidays back then, back when she'd just wanted to make friends and enjoy school. But the war happened, and her parents were gone, and her friends weren't even at school, and she wasn't even sure what she wanted to do after Eighth Year ended. She knew who she was, but she didn't know who she wanted to become.

She felt invisible.

So, when the rumors of a Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Year All Hallow's Eve party began to spread like wildfire, Hermione was less than enthusiastic. She had no desire to report the rumors, and neither did she have the desire to attend.

Perhaps she was just protecting herself because no one had invited her yet.

"Hermione! Hermione, wait up!"

The sound of footsteps pounding against the stone floor gave Hermione pause in the corridor. She turned just in time for Dean Thomas to come skidding to a halt behind her, his robes fluttering around his legs and his umber skin shining with sweat. His tight, kinky curls were cropped close to his head, having grown out a bit from the shorn style he wore during their younger years.

"Blimey, you walk so fast," he said, panting for breath with his hands on his knees. He stood up straight, flashing her a grin. "Happy All Hallow's Eve! I wanted to know if you were going to the costume party tonight."

Hermione felt something twist in her stomach—something familiar. She knew she was nineteen and far from being a girl, but it felt like just yesterday that she'd been invited to a party as a joke. She didn't think Dean would do anything nearly that horrible to her, of course, but it didn't stop her heart from dropping with the fear.

She tossed her elbow-length brown box braids over her shoulder with one hand, and then clutched her Advanced Potions textbook closer to her chest.

"I'm not sure," she said. "I don't know anything about it."

He tilted his head, appearing perplexed. "Wow, really? It's in the Room of Requirement after dinner. It's Sixth Years, Seventh Years, and us."

"Oh."

Dean scratched the back of his head. "Well, me, Seamus, and Pansy Parkinson are the ones handling everything, but we ran into some trouble. See, I'm handling the music, Seamus is handling charming the decorations, and Pansy's got the layout of the room and invitations handled. But we need someone who can help with food."

Well, shite.

No _wonder_ she hadn't been invited. But now they wanted her to help with food? The day _of_ the party?

"Why would I be able to help with that?"

"I remember you were always soft towards the House Elves, so Pansy sent me to ask you," Dean said, hands on his hips. "Do you think you could figure out a way to get some food sent up to the room without the professors finding out?"

Hermione was taken aback. She hadn't thought of that. It was doable, but that didn't mean she wanted to do it. She'd never much liked Pansy and something about the fact that she'd sent Dean to ask her to cater her All Hallow's party without an invite rubbed her the wrong way.

"I need to think about it," she said.

"Ace!" Dean's smile shone even brighter. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I know we've got class, but I—well, you know, I feel like I haven't talked to you in ages. How have you been?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. Well, this was new.

Upon returning to Hogwarts for their Eighth Year, it became painfully clear to Hermione that she was Hermione Granger, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley's friend. Dean Thomas—along with everyone else—had made it clear with polite smiles and occasional greetings that she was their acquaintance.

And she had never had this many acquaintances at one time before.

"I've been fine," she said, her tone clipped. "If that's all, I'll be off to Potions. I'll get back to you about the party."

"Yeah," he said, waving his hands dismissively. "Completely understandable. Have a good day! Get back to me at lunch, will you?"

But she was already walking down the corridor.

* * *

Advanced Potions was the only class Hermione felt safe in.

Slughorn had returned as the Potions professor for the foreseeable future and he had just the right amount of disinterest in the students this year for Hermione to slip under his radar. He never noticed when she worked on unapproved potions at her station. While everyone else worked on virtually useless potions for appearance and sleeping, she worked on the potions she wished she'd had when she was on the run.

Skin-knitting potions. Cauterizing potions. Blood replenishment potions. Water purifiers. Poison neutralizers. Vitality potions for strength and clarity of mind.

Anything that made her feel safer.

She didn't know how to explain it, but it felt like the only place where she could lose herself to the complete sort of focus that only ever came to her when she read books. She didn't have to think about anything—not the war, not her friends and their promising futures, not the fact that she felt so numb to every other emotion that could possibly be considered positive. She could duck her head down, prepare ingredients, and watch the cauldron bubble.

And then there was Malfoy.

He was the only person in their entire year—in the entirety of Hogwarts, perhaps—that was more proficient at potionmaking than she was. As such, he was the only person in the class who noticed that Hermione wasn't making the potions that Slughorn assigned each day. He'd never said anything to her, but Hermione knew he knew.

She often caught him watching her, his pale grey eyes piercing into her like he wanted her to know she wasn't as secretive as she thought she was. Hermione didn't care, though. The nightmares that she'd been experiencing ever since the battle's end were unbearable. The only thing that seemed to calm her subconscious and reduce the terrors were the knowledge that she had a chest at the end of her bed full of potions.

Often Hermione wondered what sorts of thoughts went through Malfoy's head.

It was common knowledge that the Malfoy family had been through a dark time. Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban for the rest of his life. Narcissa Malfoy was off in another country after undergoing a couple months of Cruciatus trauma treatments at St. Mungo's. Draco himself had escaped his father's fate by the width of a wand, thanks to Hermione and Harry both testifying for him at the trial.

Hermione knew she didn't have any reason to do that for him that would serve anything other than her conscience, but sometimes she did entertain the thought of them becoming friends. Their past aside, Hermione understood now the difference between holding your own ideals and following the opinions of your elders.

She liked to think Draco was a lot more like her, Harry, and Ron than she thought.

The "old" Draco Malfoy never would have held the classroom door open for her, but somehow they always seemed to get to the classroom at the same time. Somehow, she always found herself giving him a curt nod of thanks in response to his weirdly-intense facial expression and walking past him, pretending she couldn't smell his woodsy cologne.

The "new" Draco Malfoy made her feel unsettled.

His platinum hair was cut differently now, short on the sides and back and gradually getting longer on top. It fell into a fringe across his forehead, choppy and messy, and was the sort of hair that stuck up when he put his fingers through it. It was edgy—much edgier than the prim, proper Pureblood wizard he'd always presented himself to be. In fact, a lot about his appearance had changed. He hardly ever wore his robes, wore black denims with holes in the knees and oversized jumpers, and had a tiny Golden Snitch earring dangling from his left ear.

And he was covered in tattoos.

She'd seen them. Everyone had seen them. And everyone was talking about them, too. According to his friends, he'd been getting them since Seventh Year. From what Hermione could see, they went from the base of his neck to the ends of his fingers. They were colorful and unique and when he rolled his sleeves up during potions, the Dark Mark was hardly distinguishable from the rest of the tattoos.

Hermione had always thought it was clever, the way he'd had the artist tattoo roses and thorny vines around it. It almost made the Mark look intentional.

She'd stared at his tattoos so much at this point that she could name the visible ones from memory.

Was the rest of him tattooed?

As Hermione strolled up to the door to the potions classroom, she was unsurprised to see Malfoy coming from the opposite direction. He had his hand wrapped around the edge of his textbook, the book resting against his hip and the upper part of his thigh. He wore his usual ripped denims and an emerald green jumper, and his hair was properly bedheaded.

Their eyes met.

"Malfoy."

There was a pause as he came to a stop in front of her, the classroom door to their right. They were the last ones to get to class, which was surprising given that Hermione had been set back by her impromptu conversation with Dean. She tilted her head up, because even if they were on tentative ground with one another after the war, she wasn't going to give anyone the satisfaction of her not making eye contact with them.

She just wished her heartbeat didn't flutter when she did that.

Finally, he spoke.

"Granger. Happy All Hallow's Eve."

Why did he say her name like it was made of spiked ice?

"Mmhmm," she hummed through pursed lips, straightening her spine and hugging her book tighter. "You're late."

"And you're cute."

His words rammed into her like a stray curse, and it took every fiber of strength in her being to keep herself from taking a step back.

Malfoy hardly exchanged pleasantries with her and "cute" was the last thing she'd expect to hear from him. "Cute" was the last thing she'd expect to hear from anyone, as the last compliment she'd received on her looks was the Fourth Year Yule Ball. And that was way before she stopped damaging her hair with hair potions and Muggle relaxers. Now, she wore protective styles like locs and braids, but she'd still never been called "cute." She'd just gotten these braids done a few weeks ago on a trip to Muggle London one weekend, and no one had said anything. To think that Draco Malfoy would be the first—perhaps even the _only_ one to—

"For acting like you're not late, too," he went on.

Oh.

Heat began to boil up to the apples of her cheeks, and she cleared her throat. She opened her mouth, only to realize that she couldn't think of anything to say that could salvage this, and she knew it. Judging by the way he quirked an eyebrow upward, he knew it, too.

"Well, don't just stand there," he said through a lopsided grin. "We're late. Come here."

Her skin prickled.

His hand shot out and wrapped around the doorknob. There was a bit of a smug smirk curled up on his lips as he pulled the door open and held it. She rolled her eyes and walked beneath his arm.

He was so tall now. He had to be somewhere around six-foot-four. Hermione only reached his chest and it was so strange standing next to him at their table because—oh, that's right. She'd forgotten.

Somewhere around the second week of Eighth Year, he'd started taking the second station at the table in the back right-hand side of the room. She'd been using the first station at that particular table, making them table partners. Not that she minded being around him, per se, but it didn't make any sense.

Why would he choose to be by her side for _any_ length of time?

Today, they were continuing work on their bone growth potions. The brew was the sort that took several days to finish, and apparently Slughorn had a very engrossing book at his desk that he wanted to finish. There wasn't even a lecture—he simply told them to get to work and retreated to the front of the room.

Hermione was working on something else entirely.

She had already finished the second of the three mix-ins, and judging by the pale color of the brew, it was ready for the third. She waited while the rest of the class went to the ingredients closet at the back of the room, knowing that if anyone saw her grabbing ingredients for a completely different potion altogether, she might get caught and lose cauldron privileges.

Malfoy reached the back of the group right as they all crowded the area, and Hermione saw him tip his head back in a frustrated scowl. He ambled over to the wall and spun on one foot, leaning back against the stone to wait. A bit of his fringe fell across one eye as he looked down to watch himself push his sleeves to his elbows. His heavily tattooed arms came into view, a myriad of colorful designs swirling together to create interesting designs, and he crossed them over his chest.

He looked back up.

Their gazes met across the room.

Hermione felt like his eyes were burning. They were. They were absolutely _burning_. Like silver that had been heated to a point where it had no choice but to dissipate into melted pools. A shiver rippled up the length of her spine and her heart skipped an entire beat.

In all eighteen years that she'd been alive, no one had ever looked at her like that.

She tore her gaze away and turned to face her cauldron in a fan of braids, panic ricocheting in her chest. Why was her heart beating so fast? Why did she feel so nervous? Malfoy had made her feel a lot of things, but nervousness wasn't one of them.

When she saw the other students start returning to their seats, chatting amiably amongst themselves, she shook her head. Whatever was going on, it had to be because All Hallow's was in the air. It was a creepy time, so of course she would think Malfoy was creepy. He had a way about him that wasn't exactly pleasant.

She wouldn't deny his looks, but she would fight to the death to prove that his personality was rubbish.

Turning around again with a new resolve, she set her shoulders back and strode with purpose to the closet. He was walking into it right as she came to the door, and they were the only two inside of it. It was a large room, but it felt smaller with the way his tall form crowded it.

Quickly, she gathered the things she needed. Mushroom stalks, butterfly wings, and snake eyes were easy, them having been on the lower shelves. At only five-foot-three, she loved when things were easy to reach.

The final ingredient she needed was pixie dust, but it was high up.

She reached for the jar she needed, finding it pointless to use her wand when it was right there. Her hand gripped the shelf in front of her as she rose onto the tips of her toes, her fingertips nudging against the glass.

A hand reached past her, plucking the jar easily off of the shelf.

"Did you need the pixie dust?"

Hermione felt irritation roiling through her spirit and she turned to glower up at him. He was holding the jar up near his face, his eyes twinkling as though he were playing a game. But his lips were smirking, as usual.

"Give it to me, Malfoy," she said, extending her hand.

"Mm," he hummed, eyes flashing. "It's not often a witch wants me to in the middle of class. I can shut the door and we can use the shelf . . . ?"

" _Malfoy_!" she hissed, eyes widening. He was a prat and he took the piss out of her daily, but he'd never talked to her like that before. Teasing wasn't something he engaged in with her—only cruel jibes when they were younger, or distant revulsion. "Give me the bloody jar. _Now_."

He pursed his lips and reached down to lift up a few of her braids. She gasped when he wrapped them around his hand and tugged. It didn't hurt—it was betraying in how nice it felt, actually—but the shock of it caused her to stumble towards him.

"Ask me nicely."

"Quit it!" she said, trying not to draw attention from the other students. The last thing she needed was to be part of a scandal right now. She wasn't just any witch anymore—she was the Witch Who Won the War. Rita Skeeter would pay a pretty penny to be the one to write the article about Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger in a potions closet during class.

Malfoy grinned, and it was the wicked sort he used to give her before the war.

" _Ask_ me _nicely_ ," he said again, dangling the jar high above her head.

Stubborn as ever, Hermione sewed her lips shut and simply glared upward. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her pleading for anything.

Not again.

"I guess you don't need the pixie dust then, do you?" he taunted, and without looking away from her, he slid it up to an even higher shelf.

"I'll just go get my wand." She turned to go.

He hissed through his teeth and she felt his hand on her shoulder. He pulled her so violently that she careened backward and slammed into his chest. The air rushed out of her lungs and left her winded, and pain exploded in her muscles. It hurt so bad that her eyes stung.

"What the Hell, Malfoy?!" she whisper-shouted, reaching up to caress her aching shoulder. Her entire arm was tingling, numb to the tips of her fingers. She turned to give him an incredulous look. What she saw there made her heartbeat stutter once again.

He looked scared.

His brows had pulled together on his forehead, and his eyes had softened towards her. His gaze washed over her upper body, like he was searching for something. Checking her over.

Worrying.

Then, as fast as it came, it was gone, replaced by something cold and dead.

"Here," he said in a curt tone.

The pixie dust was shoved into her chest as he walked past her towards the open doorway. She caught it with her good hand and took a deep breath.

Was he really that strong? Or was she just weak?

Hermione waited a moment to collect herself, and then she went back to her spot. Malfoy was already working on his potion, crushing dried insects with a mortar. He didn't acknowledge her.

She cast him one last wary glance before she began to unscrew the lid off of the snake eyes.

Falling into her work was easy. She used her wand to freeze the snake eyes and then dropped four of them into the boiling hot cauldron. Once it turned blue, she sprinkled the pixie dust in a clockwise motion, then cast a silent spell with a wave of her wand to get it to do what she wanted.

The more time passed, the less her arm hurt and the more feeling returned to her fingers. She had to shake them out a couple of times, but for the most part, it wasn't anything serious. Within fifteen minutes or so, she was able to start working on cutting the mushroom stalks.

"That doesn't look like it's for bone growth," Malfoy said in a quiet voice as he trimmed something over the top of his brew. He didn't look at her, even when she glanced his way.

"Mind your own business," she retorted.

"You never like to do what you're told, do you?"

"Never have, never will," she said.

"And here I thought you were a swot who had an orgasm every time she followed a rule."

His words rocketed through her body and she dropped her knife. She fought the urge to blush with every part of her soul.

It was just a word. A _scientific_ term for a bodily function.

Why did he have to _purr_ it?

"Couldn't be me," she said, clearing her throat beforehand. She turned the stalks on their sides and began to slice into them, trying to ensure each coin was no more than a millimeter thick. "Rules are there to guide people in the direction the person who created the rules intended. Meaning just because someone tells me to do something, doesn't mean their reasoning is correct."

"So, if I told you what to do, you wouldn't do it on principle?"

Hermione let out a laugh, pausing in her cutting. "Based on what principle? The principle that any intention you'd have for me would result in my maiming, exsanguination, or death? With you in charge, the floors of Hogwarts would run red with my blood."

Something flickered in his eyes, but it wasn't something she could read.

"You may not like following the rules, but you, Granger, are not a liar. Don't act like you weren't front and center at my trial, advocating for the goodness you think exists within me. One day, you might find yourself having to listen to me in order to keep yourself alive."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, feeling his words settling into her psyche like poison. She sliced another coin from the mushroom.

"Is that a threat?"

"Why would it be?" he challenged, one hand on the table and the other dragging through his hair.

"You're saying it like you think I don't know I'd be keeping myself alive from _you_."

It was his turn to narrow his eyes. He took a step closer to her, looming over her in a way that made her want to shrink down.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" She curled her upper lip and craned her neck to look up at him. "You hate me, Malfoy. If you're warning me about something to do with my life, the first person I'd suspect I'd need to be wary of is you."

He breathed a laugh, one that dripped with incredulity, and he rubbed his chin. Something about the way he glanced at the rest of the students in the class gave Hermione the distinct impression that what she said had angered him in some way. It seemed that she had hit a nerve somewhere on his person.

"Believe me, Granger. If I ever tell you to run from me?" He leaned down closer, and she felt his breath fanning her ear and the side of her neck in a way that made her still-aching shoulder rise up an inch. "You'd better do what the fuck I say."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he'd returned to his spot to resume working.

Rattled, Hermione tried to focus on her mushroom. She was only half done with one stalk and she needed to cut four more. It was difficult enough with her hand feeling so weakened and her shoulder already developing a bruise, but now she felt unsettled. Anxious.

Malfoy was a jerk and a prat and an arsehole, but he'd never given her the impression that he would hurt her. Even before the war, there was an unspoken wall between them that only _she_ had crossed—the day she punched him on the hill in Third Year. He'd never touched her since, except in Fifth Year when he'd held her hostage by the back of the neck in front of Umbridge in her office. Even then, she hadn't felt like she was truly in _danger_.

But the ominous air about him when he'd said," _if I ever tell you to run_ ," left her blood as cold as ice in her veins.

"Are you making a muscle regeneration potion?"

She paused again. "Still not your business."

Silence, and then he snapped, "It's not going to brew correctly if you cut the stalks into coins, smart one. You have to cut them into strips."

"No, the books _I've_ read specifically say to cut them into _coins_."

"Except that my godfather was _the_ potions master," he said, drawing her glowering gaze up to him. His eyes blazed. "Don't you think I know a bit more than you?"

"No," she said. "On principle, you're wrong."

" _What principle_?" He looked about ready to explode as he slammed his shears down on the table and turned to tower over her. "The principle that you're a swot?!"

"The principle that you don't know everything, and that the only person who's bested you in every subject every year since First is _me_."

"Oh, come off it," he said, scoffing. "I did just as well as you in potions. Do you really want to risk being wrong and have to start over from the beginning all over again?"

"I won't have to start over," she said, eyebrows up as she cut the last of the first stalk. "Because I'm right."

"You're wrong."

"No, I'm not," she said in an annoyed, sing-song trill. She reached for the second stalk and turned it on its side.

Malfoy scowled.

"Cut it this way."

Hermione went rigid. He was standing right behind her. She felt the hardness of his chest against the back of her head, saw his tattooed arms come into view on either side of her as he boxed her in. His scent washed over her, pleasant in the most infuriating of ways.

His hand closed over hers, wrapping around the handle of the knife. She was too stricken with surprise to fight against him as he forced her to cut the stalks vertically, the blade sliding slowly from the top of the stalk to the base.

Heat spread across her entire body, causing her skin to prickle again.

"From top to bottom, just like this," he said in that same gravelly voice he'd used in the closet. "And stop acting like such a _fucking_ brat."

Why on _Earth_ did he need to purr the curse word, too?!

"Okay, that's enough," Hermione said, eyes darting across the backs of the students in front them. The entire room was full of smoke from the bubbling cauldrons. "You can move back now."

"Not until you show me you can do it correctly." His right hand—which wasn't occupied—pressed flat to the table beside hers. She looked at it, taking in the sight of the tattoos stretched across his prominent tendons and veins. He squeezed her other hand tighter, keeping it from letting go of the knife handle. "From top . . . To bottom."

He had such lovely hands for a former Death Eater.

Hands that looked like they could wrap around her throat and squeeze until she lost consciousness. Like they could trap her wrists beside her head until she lost the feeling in her fingers. Like they could bruise her sides or her hips or her thighs.

Malfoy was dangerous, and Hermione didn't know why.

That was it. He had to have cast some sort of spell over her, because she'd never spent this much time thinking about him this way. She'd never been _intimidated_ by him before.

"Are you telling me what to do?" she challenged, moving slowly as she pulled her free hand back towards her abdomen and started to move it across. "Because I just told you I won't do what you say."

"Are you really in a position to do that right now?" he said, and he leaned into her, dropping his head by her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that he was watching the class, too. "Because from my vantage point, you're as good as mine right now, Granger."

There it was again.

The heat that spread through her entire body, accompanied by a shiver that tickled her spine.

Hermione's hand hesitated as her brain attempted to make sense of it. To try and piece together how they went from barely speaking the entire year except for him to make cheeky remarks, to him boxing her in against the table and telling her she belonged to him.

"I'm in the position to do whatever I'd like," she whispered, her hand resuming its slow inching. "I think after this past year, I've earned that, don't you think?"

"Not with me."

"And I need to earn that right with you?" She was getting closer, and he didn't seem to have noticed. His head was turned towards hers, and she could feel him studying her face.

"Anything with me or from me needs to be earned, Granger," he said, his voice like stone. "It's the same for everyone. You're not special."

Somehow, Hermione was able to discern that he wasn't talking about rules and principles.

He was talking about obedience.

"And I suppose keeping you out of Azakaban wasn't enough to earn the right to disobey you," she said. "You, a failed Death Eater who made every wrong choice based purely out of fear."

His hand tightened further around hers, and now, it hurt.

"That boy is long gone," he hissed, and he was audibly enraged. "I'm not a boy anymore, and I don't fail."

"And yet still, I disobey you," she bit out through teeth clenched against the pain in her hand. Her shoulder hurt, too.

"Not for long."

"We'll see," she said.

She made a grab for the bit of handle that peeked out in front of his fist, trying to snatch it out of their combined grips without him stopping her.

He was too quick.

Right as her fingers curled around it, he yanked backwards, pulling her arm back in a way that made him half-embrace her. As he did so, the edge of the blade sliced across the fingers of her right hand, biting into her flesh like it wanted to kiss her bones.

Hermione let out a small sound of surprise as she felt the sting, followed by a sharp, burning pain. Her skin split open like a ripe fruit, crimson-red blood welling up and pouring from the welts like a mountain stream. Droplets of it gathered in small puddles on the wooden table, spreading wider as more gathered.

A state of shock overcame her. All she could do was stand there and watch.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He snarled like a rabid wolf, and he let go of her hand.

The moment he did, she let the knife fall to the wood with a clatter. She felt his body molding to her back as his arms curved and he held her bleeding hand with both of his. His right hand encircled her wrist, turning her pulse up to the sky. His left hand cupped the back of her palm, and his thumb pressed into the flesh at the base of her fingers.

More blood gushed forth, and it spilled over his skin, down both of their wrists.

And then he just stood there.

He just stood there, watching the blood pool and gather. When the shock faded—when Hermione realized she was losing a lot of blood and the pain was acute—he continued to stand there.

She could feel him trembling.

"Malfoy, let go of me," she said, and she tried to pull her hand back. "Let go of me, and go back to your spot so I can heal myself."

His arms tightened around her. "Wait. Just w-wait."

She felt her stomach lurch with something akin to fear.

Malfoy didn't stammer.

His right hand, streaked with her blood, moved to grip her hip. She felt his touch through the fabric of her skirt, as hot as a star pressed to her skin. It was nearly unbearable the way it made her thighs ache.

Nothing made sense.

And then his head dropped to the curve of her shoulder and twisted inward, his nose brushing her pulse. His chest expanded as he inhaled, and alarm bells sounded in the recesses of Hermione's white-empty mind.

Was he _smelling_ her?

"Let me go," she said, her voice strong and sure. "Right now."

There was a second of silence. A second where she felt her heart silently pleading for someone— _anyone_ to turn around and see what he was doing—but when they didn't, another second went by.

One where she wanted his hand to squeeze harder.

His fingertips twitched in the dip of her hipbone, pressing into the tender flesh beneath her skirt. Something pulsed between her thighs, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks.

"You're so breakable, Granger, you know that?" His voice was as rough as gravel as his breath fanned her skin. Hoarse, like he'd been screaming. "I could _crush_ you right now."

Hermione was not someone who felt fear. Not often, at least. The last time she could remember truly feeling scared was when Harry walked out to the Forbidden Forest and she hadn't known if he would be coming back.

That, and the time she was lying underneath the searing-hot tip of Bellatrix Lestrange's wand.

And now.

Now, when someone who had despised the supposed "muddiness" of her blood for so long that the fact that he seemed enraptured by the fact that it was all over his hands terrified her.

She closed her eyes.

"Malfoy," she said. This time, her voice trembled. "Let me go. Go back to your spot. _Please."_

"But I like when you beg," he growled, the words slithering into her ear and creeping down to her loins. "Ask me again."

What the _bloody Hell_ was going on with him?

In a last minute burst of panic, she took her free hand—her left one—and raised it up. She smeared the bit of blood that was on it across his nose and mouth, dragging it along his cheek to his ear. Her fingers brushed his Snitch earring, and then she dropped her aching arm back down again.

" _Fuck_!" he cursed, stumbling backward as though she'd just caught flame. "What the _fuck_?!"

Hermione whirled around, leaning back against the table with her chest heaving. She held her wounded hand upright, watching the blood fall to the stone floor beneath them.

Malfoy's eyes were wild as he stared down at her, his face and hands stained with her blood. He wanted to murder her. She could see it there—he wanted her dead by his hands. The fear she felt at the thought of him breaking her apart and watching her die trapped a scream in her chest.

Standing over her like that with vermillion painted skin, he looked like a monster.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked out, the words falling out of her lips against her will. "I didn't meant to—I was just—"

"Shut—" he said, ire as hot as the sun in his voice as he held his bloody forefingers up. "—your fucking mouth, Granger."

His eyes flashed dark grey, as dark as a stormy sky in the Winter. Hermione felt his rage freezing her to the core as he gave her one last scathing look and then, without another word, he grabbed his things and stormed out of the classroom.

What had just happened?

No— _what_ had just _happened?_

The encounter in the closet, him trapping her against the table, the way he'd reacted to her blood, the anger . . .

What was wrong with Malfoy?

"Who left the room?" Slughorn said. "Who was that?"

"It was Malfoy, sir," Hermione said, her hand scrambling into her robes for her wand before she turned back around. She healed herself and vanished the mess of her blood. When she faced the front, the entire class was looking back at her, including Professor Slughorn, who had stood up from his seat. "I don't think he's feeling well."

"Ah," Slughorn said. "How unfortunate."

Hermione met the eyes of several of her peers, who didn't do much other than smile at her and turn back around. She picked the knife back up and tried not to think about the way it felt to have it slice her open, and then she finished with the mushroom stalks.

She cut them vertically, from top to bottom.


	2. Chapter 2

** Tastes the Sweetest **   
_Part Two_

In the Great Hall at lunch, Hermione glared at him through a shower of orange lights.

He looked as normal as ever—if she could call him sitting amongst his friends with a surly expression on his face _normal_. She supposed it was _his_ normal, as the only time she ever saw him crack any type of smile was when he was giving her Hell. She didn't know if that was a good or bad thing.

Had he already put the blood incident in class behind him?

She wasn't so sure if she could put it behind her, herself. Even though she'd healed herself, she could still see the crazed look in his eyes as he stared down at her. Hermione had faced death down quite a few times, and she knew what it felt like to fear for her life. In that moment, she was so certain that he'd wanted to end her life that she had no desire to eat.

She just wanted to glare at him.

Godric, now she knew how Harry felt Sixth Year. Malfoy was hiding something—he had to be. It was the only thing that made sense. How else could he go from a tense conversation that he had _absolutely_ dominated, to suddenly stammering and stumbling away?

 _What was he hiding_?

Dean came into her line of sight, blocking her view of the Slytherin table and filling it with a hopeful grin.

"Did you think about it yet?" he asked.

She jolted, unaware that she had become so completely absorbed by her theorizing that she hadn't realized how loud it was in the Great Hall. All Hallow's had apparently given everyone a pinch of excitement—almost everyone was deep in anticipatory conversation.

"Huh?" she said. "Oh—I suppose."

"You suppose you can manage the catering?" He pumped his fist in the air. "Ace, Hermione! I'll go tell Pansy!"

"What?" Realization slammed into her. "Wait—I haven't . . . Never mind."

Dean was already dashing across the room to the Slytherins, where she could see him telling Pansy Parkinson the good news with enthusiasm. A large amount of Slytherins were staring up at him, and when he pointed over at her, they all turned their gazes on her.

Hermione grimaced. She didn't like to be stared at.

Especially when Malfoy was one of the ones doing the staring.

Feeling oddly guilty, she ducked her head down and took a bite of her pasta. It tasted dry and bland. Today was turning out to be a lot different than she'd originally thought it would be.

Dean jogged back over.

"Pansy's ecstatic," he said, smiling as he slid into the bench across from her. "And Malfoy said he's gonna help you."

Hermione's fork froze in midair and her eyes snapped up to meet Dean's.

"What?" she said, her tone flat.

Dean started plating himself some food, happy as can be as he detailed her penultimate demise.

"Yeah, girl. He said the House Elves can be finicky now after the war. He goes down there at night sometimes and they give him snacks. He says that they don't like doing anything for free anymore now that they're working for pay, and he's the only one who knows exactly what they each like. He's leaving right now for Hogsmeade to get them gifts."

As Dean continued to prattle on, Hermione felt the color draining from her face, becoming replaced with horror. Her eyes tracked the movements of Malfoy leaving the Great Hall exactly as described. He was rolling his sleeves back down and—at the last moment—he turned in the doorway to face the Gryffindor table.

He locked eyes with her and tilted his head in the direction of the corridor.

Did he want her to go with him?

She wasn't entirely sure that was safe, but she wasn't the type of witch to be frightened of a wizard. Especially not the coward that was Draco Malfoy.

But he was hiding something, and she was determined to figure it out now—not on the Astronomy Tower at the end of the year.

"And he was like—wait, Hermione!" Dean called. "Where are you going?"

"With Malfoy," she called back, never once removing her gaze from Malfoy's face.

His lips began to curl the closer she got, and he walked backwards towards the grey shadows outside the door. She almost hesitated, seeing the eerily triumphant look in his eyes.

Almost.

Determination threaded through her, and she renewed her brisk pace.

She wasn't going to let the "new" Draco turn her in the coward he used to be.

* * *

Malfoy was leaning against the wall, shouldering it like a doorframe.

As Hermione padded up to him, stopping a few yards away, she saw the smirk on his face turn almost sinister.

"I bet you're pretty happy with yourself."

Her eyebrows twitched up. "Why would I be happy to be walking to Hogsmeade with _you_?"

"Oh, I apologize," he said, uncrossing his arms and standing up straight. "I wasn't aware you were invited."

"I invited myself." She adjusted the strap of her satchel on her shoulder, turned her nose up into the air, and stomped past him. "So, let's go, so we can get back in time for class."

He snorted but followed her down the corridor and out to the courtyard.

Seeing stones that once ran red with the blood of children, Hermione felt sobered for a moment. The sky was heavy with dark clouds that rumbled in the distance. She almost wanted to laugh.

What were the chances that it was going to storm on All Hallow's Eve?

They walked down the hill in complete silence. It was a tense silence charged with something that was as awkward as it was electric. Hermione felt like she had a million and one questions to ask him, but the fact that she had anything to converse with Malfoy about at all floored her.

She said nothing.

In Hogsmeade, she waited outside while Malfoy went into Honeydukes to buy the gifts. She sat down on a bench and watched the sky, wondering to herself why he'd told Dean he was going to help her. Was he trying to spend time with her intentionally? Was it because he was angry with her about smearing blood on his face?

He had to be. What an imbecilic question. _Of course_ he was angry with her for doing that. He'd held her hand while she bled, but that wasn't the same thing as getting it into his _mouth_.

Oh, the entire thing was absurd. She could almost laugh. She'd _smeared her blood across his face_. It was ridiculous.

And his _reaction_. Good Godric, it was like he'd seen a ghost. Which made perfect sense, given the purist ideals that had been instilled in him since he was young. Her blood was soiled to him. Tainted. It always had been. He didn't want it in his _mouth._

It wasn't like he was a vampire.

Malfoy sat down beside her on the bench and handed her a small package. She eyed it, not lifting her hands from her lap. He rolled his eyes and his head lolled so he could look down at her.

"Take it."

She shook her head.

" _Take_ it, Granger. Fuck's sake."

"You're mental. There's no way I'm taking anything from you."

He smirked again, combing his fingers through his messy hair. "If you think I'd need to take you to Hogsmeade and poison you with candy to kill you, you're the one who's mental." They looked at each other. "As if I'd need to go to those lengths."

She was the one who rolled her eyes this time. "Right, because it's easier to just snap my neck."

"And you do have such a fragile neck."

Fingers brushed her braids back over her shoulder, grazing the skin beneath her jaw. She jumped, scooting as far away from him as the bench's armrest would allow. Giving him a revolted look, she fought the desire to slap that stupid smirk off of his face.

"What is it?" She nodded to the Honeydukes package. It was small and separate from the bag full of other sweets on the ground by his feet. "Tell me what it is, and I _might_ take it."

"It's just a chocolate frog, Granger. Harmless." Malfoy picked it up and offered it to her again. "They're individually wrapped, so there's no way I could have laced it with poison."

With a tentative hand, she took the package from him and unwrapped it. Sure enough, a chocolate frog sat there. Chocolate frogs were one of her favorites, so while she wasn't _angry_ at the gift, she was confused by it. Suspicious of it.

Suspicious of _him_.

"What's it for?"

"Because I wanted to," he said, and he laced his fingers behind his head. Hermione could see his knees through the holes in his denims. "And I do whatever I want."

"Of course you do." She tore the wrapping, lifted the chocolate frog, and took a large bite. The chocolate was milky and smooth, sweet on her tongue as she chewed. "Thanks, I _guess_."

A sharp laugh escaped him. "You're such a fucking bitch, you know that?"

She took another bite, shrugging. "So?"

"Aren't Gryffindors supposed to be _polite_?" He looked down at her again, his eyebrows rising. "You're worse than Potter."

"Gryffindors are brave," she said, smiling into her third bite. It tasted good. "Bravery doesn't equate to politeness. Sometimes, you have to be rude to get your point across. You're not exactly the poster child for good manners."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like it when I'm bad."

She almost choked on her fourth bite. Her cheeks heated with her flush and she coughed. That wasn't true. Everything that had happened in the closet. The things he'd done at the table. All of that was objectively "bad," and she hadn't wanted any of it to happen.

But could she say she hadn't _liked_ it?

His voice came in her ear and she felt his chest pressing against her shoulder.

"Or maybe you're the one who wants to be bad. Maybe you like it because you _want_ me to call you a bitch."

She ate the last bite, looking up at him through her lashes as she licked chocolate off of her thumb. His gaze fell to her lips, where he watched her tongue curl around her finger again, swiping away the last of the sweet.

Who was the person hiding something?

Was it Malfoy, hiding some deep, dark secret that had something to do with her blood? Or was it her, hiding the fact that she maybe sort of _did_ like it when he degraded her like that?

What was _wrong_ with her today?

"I _am_ a bitch," she said. "Telling me I'm something that I am isn't exactly going to phase me."

"Oh, don't worry. I know." He stretched an arm across the back of the bench, and she felt it against her braids. The heat penetrated through to her neck. "Nothing phases you."

That wasn't true. One thing phased her.

Him.

Hermione looked ahead of her, watching the empty street exist, exist, and exist. It was a slow Hogsmeade day on All Hallow's, it seemed. Which was a good thing, she supposed, because Rita Skeeter would absolutely _adore_ a photograph of Hermione sitting beside Draco on a bench with his arm practically around her.

They'd certainly gone from zero to one hundred.

" _Does_ anything phase you?"

Hermione tore her gaze off of the cobblestones, banishing the images in her mind of _Daily Prophet_ headlines that would earn her a Howler from Ron or Harry. Probably both. She rubbed her upper arm with one hand and glanced down toward the Three Broomsticks.

"Some things," she said. "Bad marks. Losing the people I care about. The Cruciatus."

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "I suppose I should have guessed that last one."

Her heart skipped a beat, her stomach flopping in her chest like it had died. Slowly, she turned to look up at him. He looked back at her, through his lashes like he was bored.

"I regret that day," he murmured. "Immensely. I should have done more, but I didn't. I was a coward."

A panic was starting to build, clawing its way up her throat. She hadn't expected any of this today, and _especially_ not an apology from him for the worst, most defining moment of her life.

"I guess that phases you, doesn't it?" he said, his tone almost cajoling. Hermione felt his fingers sifting through her braids at the back of her head. "Me apologizing to you. Is it because you didn't think I cared?"

"You _don't_ care," she said, the panic rising so high she wanted to jump to her feet.

His fingers began to curl.

"And you know what I'm thinking?" he said, one eyebrow arching up to disappear into his fringe. "You know how I feel about you?"

_How I feel about you._

Her stomach twisted into a tight knot.

_What?_

"You don't care about me. You have no reason to." Her voice was a cracked whisper. "The only thing we have in common is pain."

The pain leftover after the war. Of old Pureblood traditions, passed down for centuries. Of knowing what it felt like to have fire course through their veins. He didn't have to tell her for her to know he knew what the Cruciatus felt like, too.

"Maybe I like pain," he purred as his fingers curled again. "You ever think about that?"

Yep, zero to one hundred.

"What about this?"

He wrapped his hands in braids and yanked her head back so fast she saw stars. Blinking rapidly, she could only stare up at the grey, rumbling sky. Her throat was so far stretched that it was difficult to breathe—so difficult that she almost gagged.

What was he doing? What the actual _fuck_ was going on with him today? This didn't make any sense. He'd gone from virtually no contact with her to all of _this_ today?

"So fucking breakable." His lips brushed her ear and she felt another jolt in the pit of her stomach. She shifted, her thighs pressing together with discomfort and something else. "I could do whatever I want with you. Can't I? Does _that_ phase you?"

She swallowed, feeling suffocated and claustrophobic. "A l-little bit."

He breathed a laugh and then pulled her to the right, using her braids as a handle to force her to look at him. There was something intense there that she saw, that made her feel simultaneously uncomfortable and needy. Something that drew her in and repulsed her, all at once.

And he just looked at her.

"Do you—" She winced at the ache in her scalp. " _Do_ you like pain?"

"I dunno," he drawled. "You've caused me a lot of it."

Confused, she reached up to try and pry his fingers out of her hair. "How have I—How could I possibly have caused you any pain directly?"

He tightened his hold and she couldn't help it—she let out a small cry. It _hurt_. These braids were new, and she'd sat in the chair for twelve hours. Her scalp was as tender as if she were a child and it was her first relaxer.

He smirked and the warmth in his eyes was like fire.

"It pains me to be near you, Granger," he said, the words coming out through teeth that were clenched tight. She felt his nose brushing the sensitive bronze skin that covered her pulse, and she shivered again. "You smell _delicious_."

_What._

_W-h-a-t._

But her head felt like it had been dipped in acid. She couldn't hold onto her strength and false bravado any longer. Her fingers clawed at his hand and she slapped her feet against the ground. Why did he have to twist so hard?

"Please let go," she whined. "Please, please let go."

He pulled her so her head was near his shoulder, and his face had to tilt down to look into her eyes. He pouted.

"Aw. I got you to beg. Does it hurt?"

_WHAT._

"Malfoy, _please_!" She smacked his hand over and over, her entire head throbbing in anguish. Her back arched. She didn't like this. She didn't like the way this felt. She didn't—

He pressed his lips against the front of her throat.

He _kissed_ her _neck._

The contrast of pleasure and pain sent something unexplainably overwhelming right to her core, and she felt her eyes rolling up into her head. Her body went limp and her hands curved around his fingers and wrist, holding on as though she were being pulled down into a deep hole.

She'd never felt anything like that before.

"Seems like you like pain, too," he breathed, and then he let her go.

Hermione gasped and fell to the side on the bench, ripping her wand out of her sleeve and casting a cooling spell on her head. It didn't do much to help.

"Come here," he said gently, and then she felt his hands smoothing across her scalp, fingers slipping between the tracks of her braids. He was rubbing something into the skin—some sort of poultice. Within seconds, the pain had eased and she could breathe again. "All right?"

Why would he hurt her, and then ask her if she was okay?

"Do you just carry Cream of Dittany around in your pocket?" she asked, angry and unsure how to even approach the topic of what had just happened.

"Yes," he said, reaching for the handles of the gift bag and standing up to go. "A small jar of Essence of Dittany, too."

She stood, too. "Why?"

"Works like a charm on bite wounds."

* * *

Hermione didn't know what the heck she was going to wear to that party.

Everyone was wearing a costume. That was the only thing that made any sort of sense. After all, it was All Hallow's Eve. Halloween. That implied wearing a costume.

Godric, she hated holidays.

After her last class of the day, she went up to her dorm room in the Eighth Year common room to try on everything she had.

Malfoy had suggested they meet by the Great Hall during dinner so they could sneak down to the kitchens and talk to the House Elves. According to him, it was the only time when every authority figure in the castle was preoccupied in one place, and the House Elves were relaxing. With dinner already cooked and being served by the castle's magic, they didn't have to do anything other than lounge about. So, Hermione wanted to figure her costume out now because once they talked to the Elves, they were going to have to figure out a way to get the food up to the Room of Requirement before the party started at nine.

She'd resolved herself to the fact that she was in over her head with this Malfoy thing. She'd known he was foul, but she hadn't known he was so foul that he'd hurt her, manhandle her, and then act like it was normal. And what was the shite about bite wounds? What was he doing, going around biting people and healing the wounds right after?

And Merlin, would that hurt. Being bitten so hard it broke the skin. The rapid build-up of pain as the teeth pressed down harder and harder, until the flesh had no choice but to split.

Only animals enjoyed that sort of thing. Animals, and magical creatures.

But Malfoy wasn't one. A magical creature. He couldn't be. His parents would disown him. He'd lose his heir status, his fortune, his surname. He'd be a nobody.

Yet he'd stood there with her blood running over his hands like he was.

" _It pains me to be near you. You smell delicious."_

Why choose the word 'delicious'?

In her dorm, she rummaged through her trunk, tossing fabric onto her bed until it piled up. There was no use buying a costume in Hogsmeade because there wasn't any time, and charming her clothes when she couldn't even think of what she wanted to _be_ was just as stupid.

She tried everything on—skirts, shirts, dresses, jumpers. The only dress she had that was anything festive at all was a black pinup dress with short sleeves and a hem that brushed her ankles. It was as hideous at it sounded and made her look frumpy and old, even with her box braids.

This was gonna be a no for her.

She needed to face it. She wasn't a costume person.

But maybe that was just it—wearing a costume was about being someone you weren't. So by those standards, she just had to wear something she wouldn't normally wear.

Turning to face the mirror, she lifted her wand, gave it a twirl, and watched the dress she wore transform.

The ankle-length hem shrunk and clung, until it was contoured to her body and stopped somewhere mid-thigh. The straight line sharped to several points, like the dress the female character in the old American Muggle show _The Flintstones_ wore. The short sleeves lengthened to point over the back of her hands and the neckline of the dress plunged to a V somewhere below her breasts. With another wave of her wand, an overlarge hood appeared on the back of the dress, and she pulled it up over her head.

She looked like the sort of witch to bend over in an alcove in the middle of the night with a wizard. The sort that didn't get nervous when wizards boxed them in against tables and grabbed their hips. The sort that didn't feel intimidated by people that were supposed to be cowards.

Because he was _supposed_ to be a coward. He'd always _been_ a coward. But now he looked at her like he wanted to devour her.

Perfect.

But she wasn't wearing make-up. Not happening.

After lacing up her black combat boots, she took one last look at herself in the mirror. There was no way she could walk down to the Great Hall dressed like this. The skirt was way too short—she'd give everyone a heart attack. Her legs looked a lot longer bare than they did in nylons. Not to mention, she'd gotten the impression from Dean that this All Hallow's party was a secret. If she blew everyone's cover by walking up to the doors in costume, she'd never be invited to a party again.

Not that she'd been to enough to know if they were enjoyable.

She shrugged back into her robes and buttoned them closed, then threaded her hood up through the neckline. That'd have to do until the party started.

As she left the room to meet Malfoy, she wondered to herself.

 _What's_ he _going to think of my costume?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Tastes the Sweetest**

_Part Three_

The party was boring.

She wasn't surprised. The room was bedecked in Halloween décor, complete with floating pumpkins, tiny sheer ghosts zipping back and forth, and so many orange lights that it looked like they were submerged in the literal depiction of Hell. There was music playing—Muggle club music of some sort that bumped from the speakers, loudly given that there was a raging thunderstorm going on outside—and everyone was dancing. The wizards were cheering and yelling, jumping up and down while the witches were laughing and throwing their hair back and forth.

Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but if she did that, she'd never stop. The last time she'd danced was in the tent with Harry, and that was depressing. Before that, she'd danced at the Yule Ball with two left feet and the wizard she'd lost her virginity to. And to be quite frank, they'd only danced three turns around the room before he was urging her to go outside with him. She was on her back behind a bush before she knew it, and then she was plopping down in the chair beside Ron with a smile.

Of course, Ron ruined everything after that.

"So, what are you?"

Hermione, who was standing with her back to the wall near the door to the Room of Requirement, jumped with surprise at the voice in her ear. She looked to her right and then craned her neck.

It was Malfoy. He wore a simple black long-sleeved shirt, a silver necklace with a Catholic cross pendant on the end of it, and the same pair of black denim trousers with holes in the knees that he'd been wearing all day. In one hand, he held a glass of the Firewhiskey that the elves had sent up. His other hand was resting lightly in his back pocket, and his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows due to the body heat in the room. Underneath the lights, his platinum hair seemed to glow white, sticking out in all directions while parts of it flopped into his eyes in a boyish way.

She was loathe to admit it, but he looked good.

"Huh?" she called over the sound of the music, ripping her gaze away from his tattooed forearms.

His lips curled like a Cheshire cat as he looked down his nose at her, like he didn't need to deign to lower his head so she could hear him. He said something, and she rose up on tip toe, tilting her ear towards him.

"I said, what are you?" he said, raising his voice only a fraction.

Godric, he was such a prat.

"A witch," she replied.

"No, what are you _dressed_ as?"

"A witch."

He scowled and then she jumped again. His hand had left his pocket and was now trailing down her spine, from the base of her neck to the dip behind her hips where it lingered. She had her hood on and her braids cascading over the front of one shoulder, so there was nothing for him to grab.

"Clever girl," he said, and then his hand curved around her hip and dragged her against him.

Except that.

Hermione stumbled to the side. She was now standing in-between his legs while _he_ leaned against the wall, and his hand was on her waist. It was impossible to tell if he was doing it to hold her there, or just because he wanted to.

 _What_ was happening today?!

"So, then what are _you_ supposed to be?" she said, reaching up behind her to finger his cross pendant. Her parents were Catholics, but she didn't like to think about them.

"Ironic."

Hermione's face screwed up. What was that supposed to mean?

Malfoy dropped his head down near her ear. "Don't like parties?"

She shrugged her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to look at him. She sort-of wished someone would notice what was going on. She was entirely too invisible this year. "Not really."

"What was that?"

She scowled and turned her face towards him, their eyes mere inches away from one another because of the way he was curved over her. "I said, not really. Parties aren't my thing."

"I've never seen you at a single party at Hogwarts," he said with a snort.

"There hasn't been any before this year—if you mean secret ones like this. I think after everything that happened last year, people stopped caring about the rules so much."

"No, there were parties." He cocked his head to the side, studying her face. "You just weren't invited to any."

She bristled. "You say that like you know the reason why."

"Maybe I do." His lips hovered over her skin and for much longer than a moment, she thought he might kiss her neck again.

Thinking back to how it had felt when he did at Hogsmeade, she sort-of hoped he did.

"Maybe you're the one who made sure I wasn't invited," she said, tone challenging.

"Perhaps," he purred, and then he held his glass up to her lips. "Drink."

She shook her head. "I don't like Firewhiskey."

His arm tightened around her again. "You think I put something into it, don't you?"

"I wouldn't put it past you." She turned her face away from the cup. "But no—I just really don't like alcohol."

"You don't like anything, do you?" He sounded like he was pouting.

Malfoy straightened so he could drink from the cup, and his hand slid across her abdomen as he did so. Hermione's toes curled in her boots. The slow drag of his fingernails could be felt through the thin fabric of her short dress as though she didn't have anything on at all.

"There's plenty of things I like," she said, on the defense. "They're just not qualities you possess."

"I don't need to possess any good qualities," he said, and then his lips were against her ear again. "You like my bad ones."

Chills rippled down through her body. Her head told her he was wrong. Her heart told her to be afraid.

Her body told her he was right.

"Aren't you worried someone's going to notice it's _me_ you've got in your arms?" she asked, shrugging away from him as much as she could, trapped the way she was.

"But I like the way you feel against me," he said, his voice sounding molten. And then, before she could react, he burrowed his face into the crook of her neck and shoulder. His arm curved harder around her waist, pinning her against him so tight that they were almost one. The weight of her braids pulled her head—still with its constant dull ache—to the side so the room tilted on its axis.

Was he _flirting_ with her?

Is that what this was? Everything he'd done today—was this Draco Malfoy's idea of _flirting_?

Hermione started to giggle. She didn't know which was more absurd: Malfoy fancying her enough to flirt with her, or the fact that he thought bullying her in potions and abusing her in Hogsmeade was flirting.

If he _had_ been flirting with her, how did that make her feel? Was she inherently against it? Was there any _good_ reason why she should be against it? She didn't hold some long-term, undying flame for him or anything, but she could recognize that he was attractive. In the dangerous sort of way—like the kind of guy that she could never bring home to her parents, else she wanted to get him killed.

Except he seemed to believe _he'd_ be the one to kill _her_. He'd called her "breakable" twice that day.

What did it mean?

And why did she feel so comfortable leaning back against him like they were a couple?

"Why are you laughing?" he asked near her ear again.

"Because," she said, unable to stop the laughter from bubbling out of her throat. "If this is your way of telling me you fancy me, you're definitely making a go of it."

" _Fancy_ you? Have you gone _mental_?!"

Malfoy removed his arm from her body right as the song changed to a fast-paced, up-tempo dance tune. He shoved her away from him with a hand on her lower back, and it felt like a ten thousand ton train ramming into her bones.

She stumbled forward, getting pulled into the crowd right as everyone began to dance anew with a wild frenzy, no one seeming to notice that her feet were getting tangled. Her ankle twisted, and she went crashing to the stone floor amongst the dark orange glow.

_He . . . Pushed me?_

Hermione landed on her hands and knees, pain reverberating up through her limbs and causing her to collapse. Her chin and nose slammed into the stone, her teeth knocking together so hard that she felt dizzy. Someone stepped on her back and then leapt away from her. The crowd parted, and then she felt hands on either side of her waist, dragging her back up to her feet. She leaned into their body, one hand on her rescuer's bare arm and the other pressing to her nose. Blood leaked out through her fingers and dripped over her lips. The taste of copper filled her mouth.

Vision swimming and body experiencing several pains in different places, Hermione's head lolled back against the rescuer's chest. She blinked once, eyelids fluttering as she saw that a large section of the partygoers were now looking at her.

Judging by their facial expressions, it was Malfoy that had picked her up, and the breakfast table was going to be annoying tomorrow.

"Infirmary. No— _Infirmary,_ " Hermione said, voice sounding wet from the blood. She tried to pull herself out of Draco's arms, but he wouldn't let her go. "Take me to the Infirmary, Malfoy!"

"Don't fucking yell at me," he hissed into her ear, turning and half-carrying her over to the door.

"You pushed me," she said, and then she groaned, her feet feeling like they were moving through lead. "You have pushed me and grabbed me and _hurt_ me all bloody day, and I've had it!"

The heat and orange glow faded as they exited the room and emerged in the cool, airy hallway. It was lit by lanterns, half cast in black shadows. The quiet was oppressive in comparison to how loud it had been inside the room, even with the thunder crashing outside the castle at quite a high volume.

"Shut up," he snarled, cutting into her somewhat delirious ranting. He loomed over her, taking her by the chin and jerking her head up. Her neck—which felt like it was going to bruise from how hard he'd yanked her skull back in Hogsmeade—screamed in protest. "Keep your head tilted back! Do you want blood all over that scrap of fabric you call a dress?"

She kept her head tilted back, watching from underneath her lashes as he pulled out his wand.

" _Episkey,_ you little witch." His eyes blazed down at her like moonlight. "You infuriate me."

"I'm aware. My entire existence has infuriated you since First Year. That's probably why you've been abusing me all day. Now, are you gonna vanish the blood, or do I need to do it?"

He stared at her and said nothing.

How annoying. She could feel a droplet trickling slowly down the center of her chest, like it was racing to get to the V of her neckline. With a frustrated sigh, she swept her braids over her back and pulled her wand out of her sleeve.

_Smack._

Malfoy's hand wrapped around her wrist and squeezed. His gaze had lowered to her chest and the rigid way he stood was in direct juxtaposition to the strange look in his eyes and the way he wet his lips with his tongue.

Hermione was disturbed. Her breasts weren't even visible.

Who taught him how to flirt?! His grandmother?!

Her brows pulled together on her forehead and she started to laugh again. It didn't make any sense, and it would never go over well with her friends. She wasn't sure if he was just unsure of how to treat her because they'd had such a volatile upbringing, but she was willing to give him a chance. If anyone could do a better job of understanding her than Ron had, it was Malfoy.

"Malfoy?"

With the speed of a snail, he dragged his gaze up the rivulet of blood, traveling it like a forest path. Their eyes met.

"If this is your idea of flirting," she said slowly, "then you can let go of my wand hand now. I prefer to be asked to dinner like a normal person."

His eyes went wide and he let go of her wrist.

"Granger . . . I'm not flirting with you."

Heat rushed up from her chest, filling her cheeks with the visual depiction of her embarrassment. Her arm dropped, the tip of her wand pointing down and the blood staining her face, neck, hand, and chest forgotten. Humiliation.

She knew this feeling well.

Because Malfoy _was_ attractive. He was attractive and he was objectively popular, and in spite of his criminal record and war crimes, people still wanted to be around him. And she was the one who hadn't been invited to any parties. She was the one who got picked second by Ron after Lavender. Bless her heart and rest her soul, but _Lavender._ Hermione was the sort of girl who could take a hex to the chest for you, but Heaven forbid she couldn't keep her mouth shut and stop reading.

Of course Malfoy wasn't flirting with her.

"Oh," she whispered.

"I don't need to flirt." He took a step toward her, and his head tilted to the right. He gave her a once-over. "If I want you, I'll have you."

Hermione felt her heart sinking into the pit of her chest, and she didn't know why. Before today, she hadn't even been friends with him, nor had she had any sort of fancy. She'd known he was attractive, but their past had been enough to warn her off of him. But with everything he'd done today, she'd started to believe that maybe _he_ fancied _her,_ and she'd entertained it.

Now, she felt stupid for it.

"So . . . Then what the Hell is your problem with me?!" she cried, glaring up at him.

"What are you talking about?" He ran his hand through his hair, looking at her from underneath his brow. It was frightening, when he looked at her like that. "I don't have a problem with you at all."

"Yes, you do. Do you think I'm an idiot? You've been taking the piss out of me all day!"

His facial expression remained unchanged.

"Answer me!" she shrieked, her voice echoing up to the vaulted ceilings, high up above their head.

He flinched, whether from the volume or her sudden vehemence, she was unsure.

Oops.

Within seconds, he'd lunged forward, and his hands were around her throat. Panic spread its icy fingers in her chest as her mind spun in circles, trying to make sense of everything.

_Clack-clack-clack._

Her wand clattered to the floor in her confusion. She stumbled back, and he went with her, his eyes blazing down into hers.

"You want a _fucking_ answer, Granger?" Her back slammed into the stone wall across the corridor, already-forming bruises throbbing in agony. "I'm _sick_ of you. I'm fucking _sick_ of everything about you. Your hair, your face, your voice, your scent. You plague my every waking nightmare, and I want it to _stop_."

Bewildered and terrified, Hermione pulled at his hands, choking for what little air she was able to take in. Her eyes searched his, desperate for something—anything. Oxygen, reprieve, forgiveness. She had no idea what he wanted.

A pained look crossed his face as his gaze fell to the bloodied skin below her cheeks. It focused on her lips, or—or her jaw—or—

What was he looking at?

She needed to _accio_ her wand, but she couldn't think clearly to perform the spell silently. She needed to be able to breathe. _She couldn't think._

"I want to devour you so I don't have to _think_ about you anymore," he said in a high-pitched whine. "I'm not _flirting_ with you. I'm _hungry."_

He squeezed her throat tighter and for the first time that day, she truly did feel fragile. Breakable, just like he'd said. She felt weak and powerless and like a girl. Not the Golden Girl. Not the Girl Who Won the War. Not even Hermione.

She was scared.

"Malfoy, please," she said, the imploring placation in her tone completely out of character for her. He was lifting her in the air, and the soles of her boots were scraping at the floor. She didn't like to beg, but she couldn't fight. He was strong. Too strong. "Malfoy—I-I c-can't breathe!"

His nose brushed along her jaw. His body leaned into hers, and even if she could get a breath in, her chest wouldn't have been able to expand. Her lungs were pleading for even just a fraction of space—a fraction, just to get _some_ sort of breath. With weak arms, she tangled her fingers in the hair at the side of his head, tugging.

"P-Please," she managed to gasp out. "I'll do—I'll do anything."

He wasn't listening to her.

It was just like April, when she was pinned beneath Bellatrix on the floor of his Drawing Room. Only this time, he was the one causing her the pain.

Why was he doing this to her?

"Fuck," he moaned in that same high pitch. " _Fuck_. I just need . . . Just let me . . ."

His lips mouthed at her jawline, and then she felt his tongue darting out to taste the blood on her skin. Her vision was beginning to speckle. Everything hurt. Her stomach lurched.

She only had one card up her sleeve.

"Draco," she whispered.

He froze.

Her heart leapt in her chest. She untwisted her fingers from his hair and combed her fingernails down the back of his scalp.

"Draco . . . Please let me go."

His grip around her throat loosened and then, as though she were about to explode, he threw himself back from her. The look on his bloodstained face was the same one she'd seen in the closet—the one that reminded her of the look she'd seen on it when she was being _crucio_ ed.

Fear.

He slid his own fingers into his hair, looking as though he'd just seen a ghost. His brows knit together on his forehead and he stared at her with pure horror.

"I can't do this," he said, his voice hoarse. "I can't fucking—I've got to go."

He set off down the corridor.

Hermione stood there in silence, the sound of his footsteps fading as he got further and further away from her. Her numbness began to dissipate, making way for clarity of mind. It had been an awful All Hallow's, but it wasn't going to end his way.

He was going to shove her, break her nose, strangle her, and then just _walk away_?

Now, she was angry.

Hermione whirled around, her braids whipping out away from her back as rage filled her from head to toe. She threw her right hand out at her side, silently _accio_ ing her wand as she began to storm after him.

" _Malfoy_!" she roared. "You're _not_ walking away from this! _Flipendo_!"

A nanosecond crept by, and then he spun around faster than she could blink. Shock rattled her as he flashed forward like a haunt, all the way back to where she stood and towered over her. The fires of Hell burned within his silver eyes.

"Don't. Fucking. Hex. Me."

_How did—_

_How did he get back to me so fast?_

Hermione didn't back down, even though her throat was in agony and her body was bruised from that day's horrors. She held her head high, set her gaze upon him with determination, and stood up for herself.

"What is it you want from me? Do you need me to forgive you so you can move on from the nightmare that is your guilt? Is that it?" She threw her free hand up into the air, keeping her wand low at her side so he didn't feel tempted to try and grab it. "Fine! You're forgiven!"

"I don't _want_ your bloody forgiveness," he hissed. "I didn't apologize."

She didn't know what to say to that.

When it became clear she wasn't going to reply, he turned and started walking again. An unfamiliar desperation made itself apparent, expanding in her chest like her earlier panic. She didn't know why. Maybe it was because it was him, and she really did want to put their past behind her. Maybe she just wanted someone to notice her the way he always seemed to.

Either way, she didn't want him to go yet.

She shoved her sleeve up to her elbow on her left arm. Her blood was on fire.

This was so dramatic.

"Is it proof you need?" she cried, lifting her wand and holding it against her bared forearm. "Do you need me to prove to you that my blood's just as red as yours?"

He stopped but didn't turn back around.

Hermione didn't know why, but her emotions were floating into her throat. Her eyes were full of tears. When she spoke again, her voice was meek and broken.

She just wanted someone to pay attention to her.

"Will that help your nightmares?"

Silence.

Hermione looked down at her arm.

" _Diffindo_."

Malfoy whipped around to face her, his eyes as wide as saucers and his brow furrowed in Hell-hot ire.

" _No, Granger! Don't_!"

But it was too late.

Hermione drew the tip of her wand down her arm, not deep enough to cause any real damage, but enough to break the skin. The pain was acute, but no worse that when he'd cut her with the knife in class that morning. Not for the first time that day, blood began to spill from her open veins. A blood replenishment potion would definitely be needed tonight before bed.

A growl.

Low, rumbling deep within the chest of a beast. Like a werewolf. A creature. A monster.

A—

She must have misunderstood. She had _clearly_ misunderstood.

It had nothing to do with her blood, yet everything to do with it.

Veins as black as night began to spiderweb their way outward from his eyes. They crept down his cheeks and up into his hairline. The color of his irises shifted, silver bleeding into red. His blood-smeared face contorted into an animalistic snarl, and she saw fangs as sharp as daggers protruding where his upper canines should have been.

_No._

Suddenly, his costume made sense.

_No. It can't be._

" _What are you supposed to be?"_

" _Ironic."_

No.

"Granger," he growled, his tone tight with warning. His eyes were wild. "Run."

The silence hung between them, thick and heavy.

A flash of lightning. Thunder rumbled and then cracked.

Malfoy snarled.

" _I said run!"_

She did.

Hermione dashed back down the corridor as fast as she could, rounding the corner and heading for where she knew the Gryffindor common room to be. She didn't know the password, but maybe the Fat Lady would let her in because she recognized her.

It was dark in this part of the hall, the lanterns too dim to see by. The only sounds came from the storm outside, and the storm inside her own heart. She could think of nothing other than getting to the portrait.

Was he following her?

There was a whooshing sound underneath another loud crack of thunder that rumbled outside the castle, and then Hermione was thrown back against the wall again.

With the same speed as before, Malfoy ripped the wand out of her hand and hurled it so far into the distance that she didn't hear it land. Then, he gripped her arm and hand.

All within one second.

He gave the wound a long, slow lick. Then, he lifted his head and moaned. Hermione watched in horror as he ran his tongue along his lips, his mouth hanging open as he experienced some sort of holy reckoning. His eyes, which she knew to be as crimson as the blood that was pouring out of her right now, met hers with the only apology she thought she'd ever get from him.

"I'm sorry," he whined.

Malfoy threw his head back, hissed, and sank his fangs into her wrist.

Hermione screamed.

She didn't know how it happened, but her magic reared up within her and blasted outward. It crashed into him, causing his fangs to rip out of her arm. Malfoy staggered to the side, then turned to face her. She knew she needed to get out of there, but she didn't think her legs were working.

The look he gave her was desperate and broken.

"I _do_ want your forgiveness, Hermione." His eyes smoldered out at her, darkening with hunger as he licked her blood off of his hands with a deep groan. "But I also want _you_."

He took a step toward her, stalking her like prey. She clutched her bleeding, wounded hand against her abdomen and slid along the wall, moving away from him.

Was he going to kill her?

"I want to taste it," he said in a breathless, hoarse voice, the gleam in his eyes almost manic, "on my tongue."

Hermione knew she had only two options. She could run back to the Room of Requirement, or she could run towards the moving staircase room, and closer to her wand. If she could _accio_ it, she could catch it before he—before he—

Before she fainted.

She was dizzy.

He continued to creep toward her, tall and imposing and covered in her blood.

"I want to see how sweet you are."

_Whoosh._

He'd flashed forward again, here one moment, gone the next, and then she was against the wall a third time with his hands on her waist. She felt enveloped by him, and not in an entirely good way. Her knees buckled as her vision tipped to the left and then the right. Her head lolled back as she panted for breath.

Malfoy curved over her, bending so he could run his tongue along her fluttering pulse.

"It's okay," he whispered into her ear, one hand pressing flat to the wall while the other reached up to twist in her braids again. "Just let me taste you."

She heard the hiss as he extended his fangs again. He sunk them into her neck. Slowly, so slowly. The pain increased to heights that were unbearable, but she was too weakened to scream. All she could do was panic and think about how much she hated herself right now.

It felt good.

He pulled her flush against him and drank with greed. He drank with no care as to whether or not she could live through it. He drank as though he were parched. Starving for her blood and only hers.

His costume wasn't as ironic as this moment.

Did her blood taste like mud?

Malfoy lifted his head and tipped it back, the smile on his face as euphoric as it was handsome. A flash of lightning through the windows high above illuminated him. His straight white teeth were painted vermillion.

"Mmm," he groaned through a hum, his tongue darting out to smooth across the front of his fangs. His eyes rolled. "So fucking sweet."

Hermione was delirious at this point. Logic guided her. She raised her wounded arm and pointed a trembling hand down the corridor.

"In my room," she whispered.

"Hm?"

"In my room." She couldn't keep her eyes open. "There's blood replenishment potions."

There was a moment of silence as the gears turned in his head.

It clicked.

" _Fuck_!" he growled right as she collapsed. He caught her in his arms, holding her upright against him. Her head rolled forward to pillow on his chest. It was more comfortable than it should have been. "Fuck, I'm so—fucking _stupid._ Hang on."

Holding her with one arm, he threw his hand out. His wand slid out of his sleeve and down into his hand. He arched it over her head and aimed it at her arm. Casting another _episkey,_ she felt the skin uselessly knitting together.

"Am I gonna die?"

"Nope," Malfoy said through clenched teeth. "Not tonight, at least."

"You have to use a locking spell to get in," she murmured, her eyes sewn shut now. He was holding her with his arms circling her back and the backside of her knees. Like a bride.

"What?" he snarled.

"To get into my room, you have to use a locking spell."

"Wha—how does that even work?"

"It's . . ." She giggled. " _Opposite day."_

She didn't hear his reply.


	4. Chapter 4

**Uhhh don't read this around your husband/wife. Or do.**

**Dead dove ahead!**

* * *

**Tastes the Sweetest**

_Part Four_

Hermione woke to the smell of weed.

That didn't make any sense. She didn't smoke weed. Neither did anyone she knew. Except Harry. There were more than a few nights in the tent after Ron had left that Harry had pulled out a pipe before bed to help him sleep.

But Harry was in the Auror training program right now. How was he here?

Unless she'd died.

Oh, Godric.

She was dead. She'd died. Draco Malfoy had _actually_ killed her, and now she was in heaven. It was nice to know Harry was in her heaven, but Merlin, did she hope it was just a rendition of him.

What if he'd died, too?

_What if Harry was dead, too?!_

Hermione's eyes snapped open.

Malfoy was in the chair across from her bed, sitting nonchalant with a lit joint between the ring and middle finger of his right hand. His other hand was curled into a loose fist, his temple resting against it as he smoked and watched her. The lanterns weren't lit, but he'd pulled the curtain of the window open. Lightning illuminated the room in flashes every so often. She could hear the rain pounding against the castle roof.

"I'm not dead," she said.

"Lucky you," Malfoy drawled. He lifted the joint to his lips. The light at the tip flared as he inhaled. He blew the smoke out, and his eyes glowed red through the cloud.

Hermione sneered and sat up to scold him, but was stopped by the horrific way her head throbbed. Her body felt like it had been thrown into a rock tumbler to be polished like a gemstone. She'd never felt this horrid in her life.

She looked down at herself. He'd vanished the blood from both of their bodies, but she felt like she could still smell the metallic tang. It lingered in the air with her fear. She glanced at the door.

"Where's my wand?"

"Relax," he purred, and he gestured to her bedside table with his chin.

Her wand was there. She eyed it but didn't grab it. He was faster than a spell, anyway.

"Where'd you throw it off to?"

"It was right at the edge of the landing in the moving staircase room. Another inch, and you would have needed a new wand."

Anger flared within her. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"Did anyone see you carry me in here?" she snapped, slow moving as she placed her feet flat on the floor. She still had her boots and dress on.

Malfoy paused. "There's no one here—they're all at the party."

"How do you know that?"

He took another drag, held the smoke in his chest, and then spoke in a strained voice as he let it out.

"I'm a fucking vampire. No one's here."

"Okay, _rude_." She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. "What time is it?"

"Ten."

Hermione gave him a perturbed look. The party had started at nine. It felt like it had been hours since they left the Room of Requirement. She watched as he took a third drag on the joint.

"Who gave you permission to get high in _my_ dorm room, anyway?" she said.

"I did," he said, and she saw his eyes flash. They looked eerie, red like that. "I can do whatever I want, Granger."

She opened her mouth to tell him he most certainly could not, and then remembered that he certainly could. And he could do it before she realized it had been done, too. That amount of power intimidated her, and not even Voldemort had been able to do that.

Maybe because Voldemort had never gotten close enough to touch her.

"What do your _parents_ think of you doing drugs?" she taunted.

Malfoy burst out laughing, holding a hand to his stomach. "Weed is hardly a drug, Granger, for one. Chill out. For two, my father's in prison, so who gives a fuck what he thinks? And third—my mother's in Greece. She only knows what I write in my letters."

"Well, why do you do it?"

"You really are exactly the type of person I thought you were." He shook his head. He pulled the joint away from his lips and blew more smoke out. "Do you wear white cotton knickers, too?"

Of course she didn't, but that wasn't his business, was it?

"It's _my_ room. I reserve the right to—"

"Oh, shut up," he spat. "I smoke because it takes the edge off."

"Edge off of what?"

"My hunger. That a good enough explanation for you?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Are you registered with the Ministry? Does Headmistress McGonagall know?"

"Why are you grilling me?"

"Because you tried to kill me!" she cried, tossing some of her braids over her left shoulder and clapping her hands together to emphasize her anger. "You literally tried to kill me fifteen minutes ago! You owe me some bloody answers!"

He didn't reply, choosing only to arch his eyebrows again and take another drag on the joint. Shaking his head, he waved one dismissive hand.

"No, I'm not registered. Nobody knows."

"So, then how do you feed?"

"I have it delivered from Knockturn Alley. And you're swot-arse won't like this, but the Squib I get it from thieves it from Muggle hospitals. But it's better than—oh, I dunno—killing people."

Hermione glared at him but didn't have a reply. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling uncomfortable in her own bed. This dorm room wasn't very large, and Malfoy was so tall that even sitting down in her armchair, he seemed to fill the entire room.

"Why haven't you told anyone?" she asked, and then she bit her lip.

His eyes followed the movement of her teeth against her lip, and then he finished up the joint. He flicked it into the small rubbish bin beside her small desk. There was a troubled expression on his face. Like a fractional glimpse into a section of his soul that he hadn't shown anyone, and that she wanted to hold onto.

Which was weird.

"Don't play dumb, Granger. You know exactly what my father would say if he found out the Malfoy line ended with his failure of a son. He's already stained his own family tree by disappointing the Dark Lord and choosing the wrong side in the war. D'you really think he'd want to hear that the one thing he has to look forward to is gone?"

Hermione frowned. Her heart wrenched in her chest for a moment. There was a lot of pain betrayed in his voice. Her mind flashed with conjurations of a family that would never be. Grandchildren that could never exist for him. She wasn't heartless.

It was sad.

"And your friends? You can't tell them?"

"My friends are all purists, Granger," he mumbled.

Hermione perked up. Interesting.

"And you're not?"

"Not anymore." His eyes met hers, and then looked away. "Circumstances changed for me during the war."

Hermione turned her face towards the window, watching the raindrops battering the glass panes. "We all bleed red, don't we? Did I taste like mud?"

" _What_?"

She looked at him, keeping her face deadpan. "You heard me. Did I taste like mud?"

". . . No, you nutter. You didn't taste like mud." He sneered at her. "What kinda fuckery—"

"Who was it?" she asked, interrupting him. "Er—when did it happen?"

"Muggle London in July," he said, tone curt. He rested his temple against his fist again and watched the way she bounced her leg in her anxiety. "I was just finished getting this tattoo—" he gestured to the tattoo on his neck. "—and I was walking to the safe Apparition point. Something attacked me, tried to kill me. It was fast. Got my wand and everything. When I woke up, I felt like my veins were as dry as sandpaper. It's hard to explain."

"No, I get it," she said, biting her lip again.

She'd done enough reading about magical creatures to know the symptoms of vampirism after the first transformation. There was just one problem.

A transformation couldn't be completed without drinking human blood straight from the vein.

"Did you murder anyone?" she asked.

"Now—" He scowled. "Granger, come the fuck on."

"No! Did you _murder_ anyone?!" she said, raising her voice.

" _No,_ you fucking—" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "No. But I almost did. Thank Salazar I'm a Legilimens, because I had to erase the _fuck_ out of his memory."

"Who was he?"

Malfoy averted his eyes, appearing guilty. "He wasn't a friend, but he worked at the tattoo shop. He was one of the other artists. We talked a couple of times. I felt poorly about it, but I mean—a vampire's gotta eat."

Hermione shot him a look. "I'm guessing it was closest."

"Yeah. I was attacked in the alleyway beside the shop. When I woke up, he was closing up. I wasn't thinking clearly—I just grabbed him. Very nearly killed him right then and there because I didn't know my own strength." He looked at her and when she raised an eyebrow, he quickly looked away. "I'm still figuring that one out."

Oh.

"So . . . The closet was an accident. In Potions."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and tangling his fingers in his hair.

"I don't . . . Fuck. I didn't mean to shove you. I wasn't intentionally trying to attack you, or—or hurt you, or even kill you. I just . . . I lose control, yeah? And then I see red. I see red, and I just . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I fuckin' lose it."

Hermione gritted her teeth. She wanted to stay angry with him, but it felt like they were beyond that now. They were beyond the past and beyond the "Malfoy-was-a-bully" narrative. They were in their own world now.

"And when you shoved me at the party?"

He hung his head and said nothing.

"Okay," she said with a sigh. "How often have you _lost_ it with other people?"

"All the time. I get angry and then I get hungry. Sometimes, I'm hungry first. I've left class in the middle of lectures because someone looked at me wrong. I almost slit Blaise's throat because he laughed too loud at lunch last week. And I . . ."

He trailed off.

"What?" Hermione said, uncrossing her arms and placing her hands on the mattress beside her thighs.

He lowered his gaze to the floor. "I really wanted to taste your blood. I have no idea why it was you. I just fixated on you this year for some reason. And then today, when you smeared the blood on my face, I—"

Hermione let out a gasp and clamped her hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Malfoy. If I had known . . ."

Was this all her fault?

He looked up at her through his lashes, his head still tilted downward as he fidgeted with his fingernails. "I was barely holding it together in Hogsmeade. And then you cut your arm, and I just . . ."

"Lost it?" she said, grimacing.

"Yeah. Lost it."

Hermione chewed her lip, trying to think of a solution. But she knew the solution was wrong because the problem was wrong. The real problem wasn't that he "just lost it." The problem was that congealed Muggle blood from hospitals wasn't the proper diet for a young vampire.

She didn't like it, but it was the only option.

Standing up, Malfoy gave her a perplexed look as she walked to the end of her bed. She knelt down before her wooden chest. Never had she been more ecstatic to have broken the rules.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She lifted the lid on the chest and began to rummage. She gathered up a strengthening potion, a potion for dizziness and nausea, another two blood replenishment potions, and an empty metal flask.

"This is exactly why I brew whatever I'd like to brew in Advanced Potions," she said as she walked back and sat down on the edge of her bed. She moved closer to her table, setting the potions and flask down atop it. She ignored her wand. "These potions are good for battle, traveling, etcetera."

"Okay," he said, dragging the word out.

She drank the strengthening potion first, waiting until she felt her muscles shedding the last of their weakness. Then, she took the nausea and dizziness potion. When she felt like she was sufficiently clear-headed, she picked up her wand.

"Brace yourself," she said, and she held the tip to the vein in her wrist.

_Whoosh._

Malfoy was kneeling in front of her, his hands closed tight around her wrists. Gone was the calm look. His eyes—still red—were full of warning. When he spoke, she saw his fangs.

"Don't even think about it."

"Do you want to eat, or not? Because if you keep drinking hospital blood that's been refrigerated for days, you're not going to mature correctly. It could cause chronic hunger that leads to you losing your humanity entirely. Then, even if you do decide to get registered, you'll be downgraded to Beast status and lose everything. I know you like your galleons."

" _What_ humanity?" he spat out in a bitter voice.

"You have humanity," she said. "If you didn't, you would have killed me."

"I still want to."

She hid her fear behind the blankest mask she could muster.

In one fluid movement, he sat beside her on the bed, his thigh brushing against hers. She jolted but tried to hide it as she refocused on her plan.

"Again—brace yourself. _Diffindo_."

She sliced open her vein, forcing herself to remain calm so her heart didn't pump the blood out too fast. The cut was deep enough to end her life, so she needed to be quick in her actions.

Malfoy had other plans.

As she reached for the empty flask, she found herself pinned down beneath him on the bed. They were both still sitting, so he was really just leaning over her, but one of his hands had pressed her shoulder to the mattress. His other hand had slammed her bleeding wrist flat. His eyes were so dark they looked black and his fangs were bared like a growling dog. Her bed was so small—almost too small for both of them. As tall as he was, she felt breakable all over again.

The fear began to wriggle its way through her.

"Malfoy," she whispered, swallowing hard. She looked at his face as he looked at her wound. "You have to fight it, okay? If you just wait, I'll put it in the flask, and then you can have it."

His brows twitched together. "Why can't I just have it now?"

"Because," she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. "Because you're a young vampire, and your self-control is poor."

He looked ravenous. He wet his lips, licking them in his hunger. The pendant on his necklace swung between them.

For a second, Hermione contemplated _accio_ ing her wand, but something was stopping her. If it went right and she hexed him, he'd never speak to her again. Or he'd kill her later. If it went wrong and he overpowered her, he'd probably drain her of her blood and finish the job this time.

She was so fucking scared of him.

"You're hurting me," she said as her shoulder began to ache. He was as heavy as stone. "Please—it really hurts."

"I just want . . . A little taste . . ." He lowered his head, and his lips brushed the wound. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as his entire mouth closed over it, his tongue dipping inside the clean slit in her flesh.

"Malfoy, _please_ ," she said, terrified of feeling the dizziness and weakness again. She didn't want to die like this. She didn't want to die at all. "Please just wait, okay?"

He lifted his head from the wound and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"If you just wait, I can put it into the flask, all right?"

"Shhh," he whispered, nuzzling the wound. "I can make it good for you. It doesn't have to hurt. It can be as sweet for you as it is for me. And then I'll stop."

Hermione didn't believe him. She did not believe him. It wasn't possible for him to have the self-control this early. If he'd only been a vampire since July and it was All Hallow's Eve, his bloodlust was still uncontrollable.

He removed his hand from her shoulder and then placed it on her throat, pushing. And pushing. And pushing. Until she couldn't move and was barely able to breathe.

"You said—"

"Hush." He kissed the wound. "Shut up. Just fucking shut up."

She couldn't stop the whimper from escaping her lips. She was supposed to be the smart one, yet she'd done something as stupid as cut her skin open right next to a vampire. And now he was—

His tongue laved the wound with more fluid than there was before. Saliva. And then she began to feel warmth. He did it again, and the warmth spread down her arm, into her torso. With every slow lap of his tongue, the warmth sank further down into her body, until it began to gather in the pit of her stomach. Soon, each taste of the wound had her squirming in the awkward, half-sitting position.

It was good. It was very good.

She couldn't remember reading about anything in a vampire's saliva that could induce this sort of reaction, but . . . It was definitely working. It didn't even hurt anymore.

It was just good.

Her thighs shifted, pressing together as hard as she could to ease the ache.

"W-Wait," she breathed out. "What are you doing? H-How are you doing that?"

He squeezed her throat and growled, snarling at her with a feral glint in his eye. He held her gaze and he tongued the wound again and sucked, drawing out even more blood.

Oh, dear Merlin.

Something happened. Either on his part or on hers, but it felt like he was kissing her between her legs.

Her lips parted on a moan.

Malfoy paused and when he spoke, it was through a Devilish smirk. "Did you _like_ that?"

Hermione glared at him. "Malfoy. I'm going to lose too much blood. Let me fill the—"

Malfoy sucked the wound a second time, and Hermione screamed. Not the terrified, fearful kind. The kind that she'd never made before, even though she wasn't a virgin. Because no one had kissed her between her legs, that was for damn sure. Ron barely knew how to find her left breast.

Ah, Hell.

"Please, please, please don't do that!" she wailed, her hips writhing. "Stop, okay? _Please_!"

He did, and the sight of him smirking with her blood running down his chin was frightening. He was worse than a prat. He was evil.

This was humiliating.

Hermione was as quick as can be, staggering to her feet as dizziness washed over her again. She turned her wrist over the flask and let the blood run into it. Swaying on her feet, she swooned.

Malfoy was behind her in seconds, his hands on her waist, holding her upright. He rested his chin on her shoulder. She could smell her blood. Copper was everywhere.

Her body trembled as her head lolled back against his shoulder. Being this close to him and feeling comfortable enough to do so without trying to duel him was scary, but not as scary as the fact that him feeding off of her had turned her on.

This was the most bizarre All Hallow's Eve she'd ever experienced.

"If you want this to work," she said, a little out of breath, "then you can't attack me or push the boundaries."

"If I want what to work?" His voice sounded scratchy.

"Where else are you going to get food?" she muttered. "You're not taking it from hospitals anymore. The patients there need that blood."

"I'm a patient," he said. "I need it."

"No, you're not and no, you don't."

"So, you're gonna let me feed off of you, then?"

She nodded, her eyelids feeling heavy. She needed the blood replenishment potion now.

"For how long?" he asked. Sensing what she needed with asking, he stood up straight and reached past her. Taking the replenishment potion, he uncorked it with his teeth and tipped it to her lips.

Hermione drank the bitter fluid greedily, feeling it beginning to work. When her mouth was clear, she answered him.

"Until you brass me off."

"I always brass you off."

"Mmhmm," she said, rolling her eyes. Turning her wrist upright, she flipped the attached cap back onto the flask to close it, then set it on the table. Quickly, she took her wand and used it to heal the cut on her wrist with the strongest healing spell she knew.

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" he murmured, and she felt him sweeping her braids away from her shoulder and laying them flat down her back. His fingertips brushed against her neck, and she shivered for the umpteenth time that day.

She didn't like how comfortable she felt around him.

"Yes," she said, and then she picked up the flask. She turned around to face him, craning her neck. Frowning, she scrutinized his face and tried to see past the blood and the fangs and the red eyes. Past the prat that he was and the bully that he used to be. Past the coward and into who he was now.

"What?" he said.

"Do you like hurting me?"

His eyes hardened.

"I'm not who I used to be, Granger. I'm a monster. I take what I want, and I won't apologize for it."

"And what do you want?" she said as she held the flask up in front of him.

He took it from her, the brush of their fingers causing a bolt of lightning more powerful than the ones outside to shoot through her body. Tipping the mouth of the bottle to his lips, he took a swig, keeping his eyes on her.

"You," he murmured, and then he tilted his chin up. He ran the tip of his tongue across the front of his fangs. So much blood. "This doesn't taste the same."

Oh, no.

Hermione's heart sank again. She should have made him leave the room when she poured the blood. Perhaps she shouldn't have helped him at all.

She just wanted to be a part of something again.

"What if I told you I could control it?" he asked. He knocked back the rest of the bottle in one gulp, and then shuddered. He grinned, and it seemed simultaneously genuine and malicious. "What if you let me feed straight from the vein?"

Hermione panicked momentarily, and then immediately calmed herself down. She walked away, towards her desk.

"No. You can't feed from the vein. You're not strong enough yet—I can promise you that. I have researched vampires before, and I—"

"Granger, I don't like hurting you," he said, heaving a defeated sigh. "I _can_ control it."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, believe it."

Hermione exploded, whirling around to glare at him with her hands in fists at her sides.

"I _don't_ believe you because I don't _trust_ you! You've hurt me again and again and _again_ today, and you're saying horrid things, expecting me to believe you don't enjoy hurting me! Why should I believe you, when you've enjoyed hurting me since the moment we met? Why, when today just feels like you're finally getting to do all the horrible things to me that you've wanted to do all this time?"

Once again, his eyes hardened to flint. He crossed his arms over his chest, the tattoos seeming to stand out more than usual in the dark.

"That's Thestral shite. I was a kid who knew only what his parents taught him."

"That's not an excuse!" she cried. "We choose our own ways in life, and you know that. You made all the wrong choices until the end of the war. How am I supposed to know you'll make the right one with me?"

Something clicked in his jaw. Something that showed her there was something he wanted to say, but wasn't going to say it. So Hermione filled in the blanks for him.

"You _do_ enjoy hurting me. You enjoy the fact that I'm frightened of you like this. You like being a vampire because it—"

"Of _course_ I like being a vampire!" he shouted.

"Because you like having power over people, and you always have!" Hermione shouted back. "You like causing people pain and as a human, you still have to feel your own fear. But as a vampire, you're at the top of the food chain, aren't you? The ultimate bully. You can say or do whatever you'd like— _hurt_ whoever you'd like, and there's not a _damn_ thing they can do about it. Sounds a lot like Voldemort, don't you think?"

He averted his eyes. "It's not like that. Don't paint me to be as cruel as him."

"Why not?" She spread her hands wide. "Why not? Because from this vantage point, you look an awful lot like a snake."

"Shut your fucking mouth, Granger." He took a step toward her, holding up a threatening finger. "I'm _nothing_ like him. _Nothing_."

"You _do_ like hurting me," she said, tears of rage glittering in her eyes and blurring her vision. "You always have and now there's nothing to stop you from doing it. Nothing to stop you from making me scream like your aunt did. You're so much like her it makes me _sick_!"

Malfoy's nostrils flared. He looked angry. Angry enough to kill her.

Perhaps she was just trying to get him to do it now, instead of making her wait.

"I bet you enjoyed _that_ , too," she spat. Her anger was pent-up, and it had been building since the first time he called her a Mudblood. She'd known when she told him in the corridor that he was forgiven that it wasn't true. "I bet you enjoyed watching her _crucio_ me. You probably wanted to do it yourself."

"Stop it."

Hermione's jaw ached from clenching it. "Now, you don't even have to. Now, you can just take a bite."

"I said _stop it_ , you _fucking bitch_!"

Malfoy's hand wrapped around her throat and shoved her backward until her rear hit the edge of the desk. His eyes blazed once more, still red.

"You're making me angry."

"I know," she said, digging her fingernails into his hand on both sides of her neck. "And now you're going to hit me, aren't you? You're going to hit me, or push me, or hurt me. Because you enjoy it."

"You know what I enjoy, Granger?" He pushed his face down close to hers, lifting her by the neck so it throttled her airway. Her toes grazed the carpet. "I enjoy the fact that I know I can shake you like a fucking ragdoll and break every bone in your body. I enjoy the fact that that I can hurt you— _really_ hurt you . . . But I don't want to."

Her eyes widened.

"I'd rather die," he said.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn't let his words sink in.

"Why?"

"Because up until the moment my aunt cursed you, you were nothing to me. You were a fucking speck. Dirt beneath my shoe." His gaze flicked up and down, from her eyes to her lips. "And then I heard you screaming. And crying. And pleading. And I hated it. I hated it because it made you human."

"So, what? That means nothing now. That makes me food."

"If you're human, I'm capable of caring about you."

"It doesn't matter!" she yelled. "It doesn't matter if you're capable, because you _don't care_!"

"Yes, I fucking do!"

"No, you don't. Because two seconds ago, my pleading meant nothing to you. This morning, you made a game of trying to get me to plead. You don't care."

Hermione didn't know what was wrong with her. Her emotions were all over the place. She felt like she was rowing with a boyfriend of ten years—not a boy she'd only ever argued with up until today. Why was she so impassioned over this?

Why did the thought of him not caring about her hurt so much?

"Granger!" he shouted, shaking her. "Why the fuck do you think I'm here?! Why the fuck do you think I told you that circumstances had changed for me? Why do you think I get to class when you do and hold the door open for you? Why do you think I moved to stand beside you in Potions? _Why the fuck do you think I was a prat to you in the first place?!"_

Water rushed in her ears, like a raging river between two mountains.

"I wanted you before I ever became what I am now," he said, carding his fingers through his hair. "I _liked_ you before that day in the Manor. I _cared_ about you after that. And now that I've tasted your blood . . ." He breathed a laugh and gave her a look she could only describe as amused incredulity. "You're finally fucking mine."

And then he kissed her.

He tightened his hold on her throat, squeezing the sides as his other hand twisted in her braids. She had no choice but to part her lips for his tongue. He dragged her head back and he kissed down into her mouth like a man who'd been wandering the desert for thirty-five years.

She could taste her blood in his mouth, coppery and overwhelming. On the tips of her toes, she balanced with her hands anchored to the sides of his face, pulling him closer. Closer. Closer still. Their kiss intensified, and all thoughts flew out of the owlery in her mind, off to deliver knowledge to other places. All that remained were his lips, pliant and soft. His arms, toned and corded. His hair, silken and unruly. His hands, strong and possessive as they held her in place.

To the wizarding world, she was a war heroine with power swimming in her veins. To him, she was breakable. He could snap her bones into splinters if he wanted to. And he would get what he wanted.

If he decided to take it from her.

That thought sent a wave of desire fluttering through her stomach like butterflies, and she felt herself beginning to freeze up. Hermione had never been kissed like this, and the fact that it was Draco Malfoy that was making her feel this way made it more intense. She wanted to pull away, but everything about him was like a drug.

The little moans he made at the back of his throat when her tongue stroked against his. The way he slid his fingers in-between her tracks. The way he kept tilting his head to the left and right, like kissing her was the antithesis to everything that had ever gone wrong in their lives.

And she supposed it was.

Hermione felt her anxiety rising to heights she couldn't handle, and she turned her face away. Still held by the neck, she couldn't do much more than separate their lips. She gasped for air as he pressed kisses along her jaw, making his way down to her throat.

Hermione let out a cry as he tossed her away from him. She tripped over her boots, twisted, and fell over the end of the bed. Her hands reached out to brace her fall. The moment she felt her stomach hit the mattress, he was on top of her back.

"I care about you, Granger. I really do." He dropped his face down close to hers, pulling her hair even harder. Her eyes stung. His nose brushed along her jaw, under her chin, and down to the base of her throat. He nipped the skin there, and the sheer terror that ran through her body was enough to make her want to cry.

She didn't know what she wanted.

Rather, she didn't know how to _accept_ what she wanted.

"I don't enjoy hurting you." He yanked on her braids again, and she slapped his hands. It didn't faze him.

And then his lips brushed hers.

"But fuck," he groaned against her mouth, like he was desperate and contrite at the same time, "do I want to."

Any semblance of decorum that she had maintained vanished. Crumbled like an ancient tower that had turned to dust.

She fought.

She fought as hard as she could, trying to push herself upright or get onto the floor, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Draco straddled her hips from behind, grabbed her braids again, and dragged her face upward.

"I like this dress," he growled, his other hand sliding up the dip of her waist, fingers digging into the flesh of her abdomen. "Did you wear it for me?"

"You wish," she spat, and she reached up behind her to try and claw at his face.

Malfoy snatched her hand out of the air, huffing as he pinned it to the back of her head and used it to push her face into her pillows. She could breathe, but only the smallest of amounts. Not enough to beg.

There was no warning. No preamble.

He sank his fangs into her neck, scoring deep and sending rivers of agony coursing through her body. She felt like she was on fire. It was like the Cruciatus was weaving a path into her psyche, melting her mind and twisting her veins.

He groaned and slipped his hand out of her hair. It slithered around the front of her neck. Holding her chin, he pulled it upright so he could dig his sharp teeth in deeper, into muscle and sinew. Hermione was in so much pain that even though she could breathe now, she could tell the pain was whiting out her vision.

"Fuck," he said after he lifted his head, dragging his fangs back out of her. " _Fuck_ , you taste so fucking good."

"Okay," she said, voice weak from pain. "You've made your point, all right?"

"Have I?" He sat up on the backs of her thighs and she realized with slow embarrassment that her rear end was right in front of him. She felt his hands moving from her waist to her back, trailing down, down, down. "I _really_ like this dress."

She closed her eyes, her hands curling into the fleece coverlet.

What was she supposed to do? She was pinned beneath him, and he was a fucking vampire. She'd kissed him like she'd been dying to do it for years. He'd kissed her back.

He'd kissed her first.

What did she _want_ to do?

Why did it feel like the only reason she wanted to escape him was because she felt like that's what other people would expect of her? Why did she want him to touch her again, to manhandle her and throw her around?

What the bloody Hell was wrong with her?

Her muscles went rigid when she felt Malfoy's hands traveling lower, tickling the swell of her rear.

"What are you doing?" she whispered in a tremulous voice. "I'm not—I haven't sha—I wasn't exactly expecting company tonight."

" _That's_ what you care about?" He began to knead the flesh of her bottom, his thumbs inching towards the center. The fabric crept up with every circle of his fingertips into her muscle. It was oddly relaxing.

"What are you _doing?_ "

"Whatever I want to do with you," he said, and his voice cracked on a laugh. "You're mine now."

She was quiet for a second, feeling like she was playing Russian Roulette. Every second that ticked by, his kneading fingers grew closer to the apex of her thighs, and the hem of her dress was nearly about to expose her. She didn't think he should be touching her like this.

But with every second that ticked by, she found herself wanting to lift her hips up so his thumbs would accidentally touch her somewhere nice.

"Can't fucking believe it," he asked, his voice almost a low mutter. He sounded focused. Interested. Enraptured.

"You're lucky I haven't decided to reach for my wand."

"I'd let you," he said, his thumbs starting to curve inward. Her stomach twisted and she struggled to keep her hips from jerking backward. "In fact, I'd leave right now if you told me to."

She felt his gaze scouring her body and sensed that something had shifted in the air. Something she didn't quite understand. Something that she was beginning to think she'd mistaken for fear.

Hermione didn't want him to leave.

His hands stilled.

"You don't want me to leave, do you? You _like_ this. You _like_ being treated like this. Don't you? And all that shite you spouted off about in there was just you projecting. You want to convince yourself of what a horrible person I am so you can feel better about your denial. But you like it when I hurt you. When I grab you and push you and make you do things because I'm bigger than you. It's why when everyone else breaks the rules, you make a fuss, but when I do, you turn a blind eye."

The more words left his lips, the more heat rushed to her face.

He leaned forward, placing one hand over hers on the coverlet and the other on her chin. Her tilted her face up, back, and to the side so he could smirk at her. She saw the tips of his fangs.

"Do you want to fuck me, Granger?"

Yes. She did.

No hesitation.

Because he was right. He was so right that it made her sick to her stomach. It was wrong. He'd treated her _horribly_ all day, and somehow, she'd just accepted it. She'd spent the entire day rationalizing it, making the pieces fit into her puzzle of denial, and now there was nowhere to hide. And that was why she wanted to know he cared about her—because that would make her feel less guilty about it.

She hoped Draco was clever enough to understand that without making her have to say it aloud.

"You've spent your whole life trying to be a sweet girl, haven't you?" he purred, his thumb stroking her jaw. "And I think you've fancied me a lot longer than you care to admit."

"I haven't fancied you at all," she said, glowering daggers at him. "And if you think I'll ever be your _sweet girl_ , you've gone mental."

His fingernails dug into her skin with a cruel pinch. She saw the fire in his eyes flare to an inferno.

"Face in the pillows."

She didn't move.

"Granger," he growled, his tone a warning. "Put your face in the fucking pillows."

She remained as still as a stone and then spoke in a whisper.

"Make me."

Draco snarled and tore his hand away from hers. Keeping hold of her chin, he took the other hand and shoved it between her thighs from behind. She went rigid, her eyes widening as she felt his hand cupping her as though he'd done it before. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to beg him not to.

She wanted to grind down into it.

"I said," he whispered, kissing her lips so softly that it made her stomach ache. "I want you to put your face in the pillows."

"Why are you doing this to me if you care about me so much?"

"Because I like being the only one who can," he replied, and she felt his knee pressing into the crease of her legs. He nudged them apart as though she weren't trying to keep them closed. Then, he began to stroke her through her knickers. "You want me to stop?"

She bit her lip as each slow drag of his fingers brushed over the sensitive parts of her body. She wanted to move her hips, but was too afraid that if she did, he'd stop his ministrations. He was making her head spin, and even though they'd gone from zero to ten thousand at the speed of _light_ —she couldn't see any reason to tell herself she didn't want it.

"No," she breathed out, her thigh muscles twitching.

Draco's hand paused for a moment, and then resumed. His other hand moved from her chin back to her throat.

"You wouldn't let anyone else do this to you, would you?" he murmured.

Her jaw clicked.

"No."

"Exactly," he said. "With me, you've always turned a blind eye." His fingers traced the ragged, tender edge of one bite wound, moving in the same slow circles that the fingers of his other hand were doing over the top of her knickers. "Tell me—have you ever once told on me?"

Words died in her head before they ever made it to her throat.

She couldn't answer him because there wasn't an answer. In all the years that she'd been dealing with the annoyance that was Draco Malfoy, she'd never once tattled on him to a professor or the Headmaster. Sure, Harry and Ron had told on him, and Draco had certainly been caught breaking rules, but had she herself ever marched into an office to tell on him?

"I think . . ." His hand slid around to the back of her head and pushed it into the pillows with steady pressure. "I think I should fuck you with my fingers until you come. How's that sound?"

"I hate you," she said, but it came out as a muffled whine.

Draco hummed in his chest and she felt it rumbling like the thunder outside. "No, you don't."

His fingers trailed up over the swell of her rear, leaving her core so they could play at the waistband of her knickers. Then, while she was still lamenting the loss, they slipped beneath to touch bare skin. Her heart raced faster.

The moment his fingers swirled through her wetness, he sunk his fangs into the junction of her neck and shoulder. She screamed into the pillow, gasping through the hot non-air as he began to slide his fingers inside of her from behind.

Hermione couldn't take it anymore.

She lifted her hips, rolling them backward. He let out a soft sigh as his tongue lapped at the two new wounds he'd created, while he stroked inside of her core with intention. Then, as she felt his saliva laving over the area he had bitten, the heat she'd felt earlier began to gather at her throat and move downward.

Her screams turned to moans, swallowed by the fabric of her pillows. Her body, trapped beneath him, could do nothing more than writhe against the bed. It increased the feeling of desperation in her chest, which in turn increased her need to breathe.

"You're a little brat, you know that?" he said, lifting his mouth from the wound so he could massage her earlobe with his tongue. The pleasurable feeling that shot through her was intense. "You challenge everything I say. You fight with me all the time. You snark at me like you think I'm annoying. Well, I think _you're_ annoying."

Hermione whimpered as the heat pooled in her core.

"I think you're the most annoying fucking witch in the entire school, and every time you raise your hand in class, I want to tie it above your head. I want to tie both of your arms above your head and see if you'll let me cut you so I can eat."

She ground her hips against his fingers, feeling the slick slide of his skin against her pearl. It was too much. Her mind spun. She widened her thighs and used her knees to lift her lower half up a bit, giving him better access. The moment he got it, his fingers moved gentler and her eyes rolled up into her head.

"I've wanted you for so long," he growled before he began to kiss her neck again. "And now I want you to come for me. Are you gonna be good and come for me?"

Hermione couldn't breathe.

Draco grabbed her braids and dragged her head up, freeing her from the pillows. She sucked in the cool air in the room, relief flooding her lungs and hurtling her closer to the stars.

"I said, are you gonna be good for once in your fucking life and come for me?"

Hermione wanted to tell him no. She didn't want him to have the satisfaction.

But instead, she let out a desperate sob and nodded.

He let out a sound of frustration and bit her again, opening a fifth and sixth wound in her neck. The initial pain before the effects of his saliva kicking in was enough to push her right where he wanted her to go. She fell into her orgasm headfirst, her entire body shuddering and convulsing beneath him. It tingled along her limbs like stardust, until she started to go limp.

But he didn't stop.

His fingers kept up their same agonizing, gentle movements, but because she was so sensitive, it balanced the knife's edge between pain and pleasure. Hermione tried to struggle, to close her thighs and move away, but her body was trapped with his knee between her legs and his hand pinning hers down.

"Please, it's too much," she panted, and then she sobbed. "Please, Draco!"

"Not until you come again. And I want to hear you answer when I ask you a _fucking_ question."

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry. Just—please. Godric—please."

He ignored her, his fingers sliding down inside of her. There was a brief moment when he did nothing—he even pulled them back out. But then, just as she'd caught her breath, he pulled her knickers down her thighs and rammed the fingers back inside of her. Over and over, at a speed she'd never experienced before. He twisted his hand so his fingers curled, slamming against a spot inside of her that certainly hadn't existed with Ron.

The sounds she made were embarrassing. The sounds he made were unholy.

The whole situation was dramatic and absurd and nonsensical and—

"How do you want me to fuck you, huh, Granger? How do you want it? You want me to treat you like a whore?" he breathed. "You want me to treat you like that's all you're good for, is this?"

Hermione felt the physical barrier of her shyness become ripped apart by need.

"Harder," she whined. "Please, I want it— _harder_ —I—"

Draco dragged his hand out of her, lifted his knee, and flipped her onto her back. Her blood painted his face like a canvas and his fangs looked sharp and frightening.

"Lay down and don't move, or I'll put a sticking charm on you and make you come so many times you can't see straight." He looked her dead in the eyes. "Hands by your head, and don't move them. I mean it."

With hesitant hands, her entire body trembling, she did as he asked. She wasn't sure whether she should feel scared or invigorated—all she knew was that he sure was something to look at.

With the blood on his face, the sharp line of his jaw and cheekbones, his red eyes peering at her through messy platinum hair, and the sheer dominance in the way he hovered over her? He was in complete control, and Hermione couldn't say she'd ever been around someone who was in complete control over her.

Honestly, she'd probably do whatever he asked her to do.

He pulled her knickers down her legs, and then untied the laces on her boots. He yanked them off, leaving her in her socks. Then, he held her gaze as he crossed his arms over his abdomen, grabbed the hem of his black long-sleeved shirt, and pulled it up over his head. More hair fell forward into his eyes, and he smirked. Hermione saw for the first time that his tattoos weren't only on his arms. He was _covered_ in them. His chest, abdomen, shoulders, neck, arms . . .

Yep. Whatever he asked.

"You have entirely too much time on your hands," she said, not knowing which one to focus on first. The designs were so intricate, each one playing off the next. It shocked her that he'd gotten them all during Seventh Year, but she supposed his parents weren't exactly attentive at the time.

"I have entirely too much money, too." He bit his lip and then he crawled on top of her.

Hermione felt her heartbeat quickening as his knee once again slipped between her legs, keeping her from being able to close them all the way. She began to tremble again.

"Put your foot on the floor," he ordered.

She did, closing her eyes briefly. She was no virgin, but with her dress rucked up like this and her entire lower body on display, she felt as nervous as one.

His fingers slipped inside of her again, sliding through her arousal with ease. She felt her body clamping down around them and on instinct, started to bring her knees together. Draco growled again, gripping the thigh of hers that was still on the bed so he could hold it down.

And then he began.

Hermione sucked in her breath and held it. She threw her head back, her hands clenching into tight, painful fists as he hit that tender spot inside of her repeatedly. Her entire body felt like it was alive with fire in her veins. She couldn't discern if it was pain or pleasure—all she knew was that it was too much.

She exhaled a keening moan and pleaded with him. Pleaded with him to please just go slower or let her breathe, but he didn't stop. Hermione reached to grab his wrist, her fingers sliding over his tattoos, but he let go of her thigh and grabbed both of her wrists with lightning speed. He leaned forward, pinned them above her head with her elbows bent, and fucked her with his fingers until she wailed.

"Salazar, _fuck._ Shut _up_ ," he said, as though she really were the most annoying person he'd ever met. "You're so _pathetic_. You're supposed to be the Golden Girl, aren't you? You can't even take my fingers fucking you like this without crying like a fucking baby. How are you gonna take my cock inside you?"

Her eyelids fluttered open and their eyes met.

He smirked.

"You _do_ want my cock, don't you?"

Her cheeks flared with heat.

"Yes," she whispered.

"You want me to keep going, yeah?" He let out a laugh, his hair shrouding his eyes as he looked down and watched his fingers disappearing into her body and tearing back out faster than Hermione could measure. "You're such a fucking whore for me."

Her heart swelled in her chest, and it made absolutely _no_ bloody sense.

Stars were starting to go supernova in front of her eyes. She was close again, and her legs were shaking so violently that her teeth were chattering. It was past the point where it felt good. Every move he made was perfect. He hit the right spots every time.

She was going to come. Again.

"You're not even trying, and I don't _like_ it," he growled into her ear, his lips brushing the shell and causing her back to arch. "You don't get to come unless I tell you to. You'd better hold it."

_What?_

That was impossible. What was he thinking?

"Boy, have you—" She whimpered. "Have you lost your _damn_ mind?"

"You'd better fucking hold it," was his response, and then she felt his fangs scraping down the side of her neck. And then his other hand was between their bodies, using contrasting, gentle strokes. The two separate movements had her limbs turning to jelly and moans spilling from her lips one right after the other. "Granger, don't you fucking dare. Don't disappoint me. Be a good girl. Hold it."

Hermione's mind careened through space.

"I can't hold it," she groaned, her back arching even higher.

"You can."

Old angers flared in her chest like flames and she glared at him.

"I can't, you fucking prat!" And then she let out another sob, feeling the muscles in her pelvis beginning to clench. "I _can't_! I'm gonna—I'm so close—I'm—"

"If you don't hold it, you're not getting fucked tonight," he warned. " _Hold it_."

"I don't care," she snarled, and then she began to grind her hips down against his hand. "I don't care, I don't care, I don't care!"

But she tried. She had to. She _wanted_ to try. It was the most difficult thing she'd ever done in her life, but Hermione Granger could never back down from a challenge. Especially not where Draco Malfoy was concerned. She curled her toes and fingers so tight that she started to lose feeling in them. Her eyes squeezed shut and she held it.

"Please," she gasped when she felt her resolve starting to crumble. "P-Please, Draco."

It must have been her usage of his name.

He slammed his lips against hers, his tongue sweeping through her mouth with something frantic driving him onward. He pulled back to moan his permission, and then he snogged her until she couldn't breathe.

Her climax started in her toes and jettisoned to the tips of her fingers, and then she was soaring through the cosmos. She feared it would never stop.

"Yeah, that's right," he hissed through his teeth, sounding triumphant and amused. "That's right. You're gonna fucking come like I told you to. You're such a fucking good girl, coming again like that. That's right."

As her muscles continued to convulse, Draco tilted his head to the side and punctured her already mottled skin. He moaned as he once again drank her blood, and all she could do was lay there. Her eyes fell shut, singular, blissed-out tears escaping the corners.

After a moment, he lifted up on one hand and passed his fingers across the blood on his lips. She watched him suck his fingertips into his mouth to clean them.

"You all right to keep going?"

Hermione blinked, taken aback.

"And if I said no?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Then we could go to bed. Talk. Walk around. I don't care." He ran his tongue down the side of his hand and smiled.

A _real_ smile.

That was not what she'd expected to hear from him.

A lot of things had happened today that she hadn't expected, and one of them was definitely not deciding she fancied Malfoy.

"I'm all right," she said. "To keep going, I mean."

His lips curled up and his eyes narrowed. "Is your cunt sore?"

She blushed again. "Obviously."

"Do you want Dittany?"

Hermione's facial expression mirrored how perturbed she felt. He'd just spent the past twenty minutes telling her a series of horrible, lewd, degrading things, and put her body through the wringer. Now he was showing her more compassion than she'd expected.

The Dittany would certainly help, but something inside of her was against it. It felt like losing the challenge, or the war, or the battle. Whatever this was between them.

Whatever it was going to become.

"No," she said. "I just want to keep going."

He bit his lower lip, and she saw the tips of his fangs nearly piercing his skin. The thunderstorm had stopped, so she couldn't see what color his eyes were in the dark, but she could see that a mischievous look had entered them.

"You wanna get on top of me?"

". . . Yeah."

He laid down, his hands gripping her waist and lifting her onto him with ease. Hermione felt her stomach twisting and spinning as he hefted her into the air. His arms—though toned to the Gods—didn't even flex. She settled on top of his hardness, straddling his hips with her hands flat on his chest.

He stroked his hands along her thighs, up over the swell of her rear, and gripped her dress. Pulling it up, Hermione helped him to remove it, leaving her in naught but her brassiere. She reached behind herself to unclasp it, and they raised their eyebrows at the same time.

Slowly, she removed it, and then dropped it onto the floor. Small drops of her blood were trickling down her torso, but she paid them no mind. She found she rather liked knowing that she was bleeding because he'd bit her. She liked belonging to him, even for the short time she had.

His gaze scoured her nude body, and he gave her a lopsided grin, showing one fang. "You're so fucking beautiful. Anyone ever told you that?"

"No," she said, and then she pushed her braids over her bare back.

Draco frowned, and sat up, causing her to shift back a bit to accommodate him. She felt his fingers smoothing along her ribcage as though tracing it. The gentleness of his touch sent butterflies into her stomach.

"That's stupid," he said, and he tilted his head back. "Kiss me."

Hermione combed his hair back, studying his face and marveling at how she'd gone from awkward greetings at classroom doors to being able to look into his eyes from an inch away in less than twelve hours.

She cupped his face between her hands and pressed her lips against his. She'd never really initiated a kiss before, so the strokes of her tongue inside of his mouth were tentative and exploratory. She focused on memorization and taste. Mapping the cavern and absorbing the tangy taste of her blood.

Confidence increased, she turned her head and rocked her hips against his.

As the kiss progressed and deepened, he reached between them and unbuckled his belt. Hermione heard the leather slithering through his belt loops and she shivered with anticipation. If he was anywhere near as good with his body as he was with his fingers, then she was going to forget all about Ron and Viktor in the next five minutes.

The buckle clanked somewhere on the ground across the room. Draco's hands were frantic as he unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. Hermione lifted on her knees while he shoved both them and his pants down to his thighs. He dominated the kiss from below, turning his head the opposite direction from her as his own tongue shoved its way into her mouth. Her wetness glided against the length of him, and she felt her nerves beginning to flutter again.

They were only a short drop and a sudden stop away from him being inside of her. There was no going back now.

She didn't want to stop.

Hermione kissed him harder, her hips rolling like the waves of the sea. Each pass of her core over him brought the tip closer to her opening. It felt nice, especially when she tilted her pelvis and ground down in small circular motions. She was still sensitive, but she didn't mind.

A shaky sigh floated out of her throat.

Draco growled, low in his chest, and tore his lips away from hers. His fingertips dug into her hips, pulling her forward and back with more force. His hot breath fanned against her jawline.

"Yes, that's it," he breathed, sounding strangled. "Slide back and forth. Make yourself come. Make yourself _fucking_ come on my _fucking_ cock."

Hermione rocked her hips more firmly, feeling the telltales tingles already beginning in her toes. She curled her fingers in the soft hair at the back of his head, pinning his face to crook of her shoulder and neck. Her moans began to get louder. It felt so good. So soft. So warm.

He clutched her tighter, jerking her hard against him over and over. Her hips bucked as the pleasure intensified and she almost came out of sheer surprise. She cried out, yanking on his hair so hard that it had to hurt.

It was at her opening. The tip. She could feel it, hard and weeping. Her hips jerked again, her heart leaping in her chest with the thrill of the moment.

He almost slipped inside.

Draco's breathing hitched with an almost feminine whimper, and his hands slapped down on her thighs. His fingernails bit into her flesh.

"Don't—not yet—" He didn't sound coherent, and his voice was slightly muffled in her neck.

Hermione started to sink down, feeling the burn of the stretch and letting the ache wash over her. He moaned again, whining. She sunk further.

"Oh, you fucking bitch," he practically sobbed, his nails almost breaking her skin. "You little _fucking_ whore. You want my cock so bad so you can't even ask for my fucking permission."

His head fell back, and she saw that his expression was not one of anger—it was of fervent desperation. His brows had knitted together on his forehead, almost like he felt sympathy for himself, and he was trembling. He watched himself sinking inside of her with his own blood welling up in the wounds on his lower lip.

Hermione just smirked.

"You didn't ask _me_ ," she said.

His eyes flashed with rage. "Because you're mine."

Feeling her Gryffindor bravery rising up, she grabbed his chin. With her other hand, she used his hair to wrench his head as far back as he had done to her in Hogsmeade. She looked down into his eyes, relishing in the small bit of power she had in this moment.

"And you're mine."

She slammed herself the rest of the way down onto him, until their pelvises met and she felt him filling her from within.

He looked like he was going to cry.

_Excellent._

"Fuck," he moaned. "Is that what you—is that what you w-want?"

"Be my boyfriend, Malfoy," she taunted, leaning forward and using her knees to lift up. She lowered herself back down, pushing another moan out of his lips. "Disappoint your father some more."

Draco snarled, the spell shattered, and surged forward. His fangs sunk into her neck with vicious rage, and as she screamed in pain, he curled his hands underneath her thighs. She felt his legs shifting, his feet pressing flat to the mattress, and then he was pounding into her from below. Every time he did, he hit that same spot that made her see the galaxies swirling above her.

"On your fucking knees," he said hoarsely. "Now. What the fuck? _Now_!"

Hermione did, balancing herself so he could keep thrusting upwards. He bit the other side of her neck, his hand leaving her thigh to sweep through the blood in the previous wound.

He shoved his hand between them and began to swipe at her pearl, using the blood as lubrication. It was disgusting. Revolting, really. Completely taboo.

But she loved it.

Hermione moaned so loud she was terrified the entire castle might hear her. His touch against her clit. His other hand sliding up to grip her waist and hold it tight. His needy, breathy groans. Her hands in his hair. His length inside of her, hitting her spots again and again and again. Her mouth hung open and she gasped.

Her release washed over her like a black hole sucking her in from afar, the event horizon shredding her into a thousand tiny pieces.

" _Ah,_ fuck,"Draco whimpered when her body shuddered around him. His head tipped back. " _Fuck,_ it's so fucking _good._ It's so fucking good on my cock. _"_

Hermione hadn't even finished coming when she found herself on her back beneath him. He curved his hands over her knees and pushed them apart, groaning as he sunk down into her over and over. The position shoved the wind out of her lungs and left her almost restrained beneath him. All she could do was lay there and take it.

"I can do whatever the fuck I want with you," he whispered, pressing kisses to the wounded skin of her throat, the tip of his tongue dipping into the holes. "I can hurt you. I can _kill_ you."

"I'd rather you didn't," she said, and then they both gave breathless laughs.

Suddenly, the movement of his hips stuttered. His breaths grew heavier, more high-pitched. Punctuated with the whining moans she liked hearing from him—the ones that made him seem a lot less frightening than he looked.

"Will you be good for me and make me come?" he whispered. "Huh? Will you be good for me and make me come all over that pretty little cunt?"

He was pleading with her, pressing her knees higher, thrusting faster. Her head pushed back against the pillows as she felt herself getting closer. She'd never came this many times before in her life. It was as overwhelming as it was amazing.

"I own your _fucking_ cunt," he hissed. "It's _mine_. Come on. Let me hear you tell me. Let me hear you say it so I can think about it in class."

He reached between them to touch her again, and her body went rigid. She was sensitive—too sensitive—but it was exactly what she needed. What she wanted.

"I'm yours," she whined. "I'm yours. Please. I'm yours."

" _What's_ mine?" She could feel his eyes blazing down into her, watching the expressions on her face. "Come on. You can do it. Tell me."

She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them, slowly meeting his gaze. "My c-cunt. It's yours."

There was that mischievous grin again.

He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. Then, another. And another. And then their tongues were battling once again, challenging each other for power that Hermione knew didn't belong to her. Draco was the one with the control.

"Oh my—fuck. Fuck." He slammed his hips against her harder. "Can I cut you? Please let me—let me cut you."

She didn't think about it.

"Yes."

Without breaking the stride of his thrusts, he took his fingernail and dug it into the skin between her bouncing breasts. The pain was acute and it increased to the point where it was almost unbearable. Her eyes stung with tears. Her toes curled—she felt trapped.

"Draco—that hurts."

"I know," he cooed, and then he pressed harder.

The skin broke and, using force, he dragged the nail upward, splitting her apart like she were made of paper. The tears spilled out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks as her blood began to well up in the inch-long cut.

He cursed under his breath, eyeing her like a whole snack as he slid his hand through the blood and painted a trail up to her throat. Bloody fingers wrapped around the base of her neck to ring it like a collar.

"All," he said, bringing his hand up to his lips to lick his fingers clean. He thrust hard and firm. "Fucking. Mine."

Hermione didn't know what it was about him that made her heart expand in her chest the way it did. She didn't know him. He'd been a part of her life in some way for so long, but she didn't _know_ him. Yet here, now, feeling him pulsing inside her as he got closer to his own undoing, she felt like she'd known him for years.

He was handsome and dangerous, and it ached to look at him.

She threw the last of her shyness away as though it were something physical, and she dropped her feet to the mattress. As he thrusted forward, so did she, and the electrical storm inside her body intensified to the point where it was alive.

Hermione wanted them to come together.

She ran her hands up the curves and lines of his toned abdomen, fingertips skating over the tattoos there. She felt his muscles flexing in response, and he moaned. His head dropped, his hair falling into his eyes. He placed his hands on the mattress beside her and she saw his biceps bulging from exertion.

"I want you to come for me, Draco. Please come for me," she said, fingers tracing the underside of his pectorals. He began to move faster, a stream of unintelligible sounds escaping his lips on the exhalation of his breaths. The sight of him getting closer brought her closer to the edge. "I need—I need—drink from me again. Please. Just—anywhere, okay? Anywhere. I need to come. I need to come. I need you—"

" _Fuck,"_ he groaned, and then his fangs sunk into the swell of her right breast. The pain made her cry out, and the pleasure in her loins made her fingernails scrape along his chest. Her hips ground up to meet the brutal pace of his thrusts.

"Draco, I'm—" was all she managed to choke out before her climax wrestled her into oblivion, pinning her there and leaving her shivering and twitching with euphoria.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—you're making me fucking—"

Draco rammed into her one last time, and he let out a moan that made her skin tingle and her heart skip a beat. He fucked her through both of their orgasms, rendering them both into a boneless heap side-by-side. They panted for breath.

Hermione felt like she'd been thrown off of a cliff.

"I," she said with one final gasp, "hate you."

"No, you don't."

Hands began to smooth along her body, and a tongue ran up the distance from her sternum to her collarbones. She didn't open her eyes. She simply laid there as Draco hovered over her, cleaning every speck, stain, and drop of blood from her body. Then, when he'd gotten it all, he reached over her for the other blood replenishment potion. He popped the top and tipped it to her lips, and she drank the entire thing. Then, he set it back down and grabbed her wand. Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked down at her.

Thoroughly exhausted, Hermione mumbled healing, vanishing, and contraceptive spells, and then she let the wand tumble to the floor. Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead as she opened them.

Her heartbeat fluttered in her chest like it wanted to escape her chest and fly away.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she murmured.

"Because I want to," he said, and then he kissed her. He rolled on top of her, held her face between his hands, and tasted her mouth like it was meant for him. He pulled back, giving her a couple of soft pecks, and then their eyes met again. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Why?"

"I called you a whore more times than you probably planned on today," he said out of the corner his mouth. "I wanna make sure you're okay."

A playful suspicion caused her own lips to curl. "Draco Malfoy, don't let anyone see you being sweet to me. They might get the wrong idea."

He gave her a small smile, and then laid down on his side. Hermione turned on her side as well, and they studied each other's faces in silence. She wondered if he'd planned for the day to turn out like this, and found that even if he had, she wouldn't mind.

"You're so beautiful," she said, returning the compliment he'd given her earlier. "Has anyone ever told _you_ that?"

"Many people," he purred, and then he began to run his knuckles up and down her upper arm. "But I suppose it means something, coming from you."

"Mm."

They laid in silence for a bit, Hermione with her gaze falling to his chest and Draco with his tracking the movements of his hand.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked after a bit.

"Beyond repair? No," she said. She thought for a moment before she spoke again. "To be honest, I don't know what happened. I don't know why I liked you talking to me like that—I just know I did. I don't want it to stop, whatever this is."

His fingers trailed around to begin drawing haphazard patterns on her back. It felt nice. Relaxing. She felt cared for.

"Good," he said, and then his arm curved around her back and his hand cupped the back of her head to pull her against him. She felt his other arm slipping between her and the mattress so he could fully embrace her.

"Draco?" she mumbled.

"What, sweet girl?"

"From now on, I'm yours."

"Oh, I know you are."

Hermione knew this was a lot. They were going to have to unpack everything that was wrong with this situation, from the fact that he was unregistered to the fact that she was going to have to figure out how to keep this arrangement hidden from Harry, Ron, and the rest of the world. The question of what they were to one another—witch and wizard, or predator and prey—would need to be answered, too.

But for now, none of that mattered. For now, she just wanted to close her eyes and fall asleep in the arms of the first person who'd paid attention to her this year. The _real_ her—not the Golden Girl. Not the Girl Who Won the War.

She hated holidays, but she supposed All Hallow's Eve was all right.

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